Then it would be all over; and Carlo Bianchi would have to roast, and gnash his teeth, and have nothing to look at for all eternity but ugly grinning devils. No beautiful angels with Greek heads and Roman—no, Græco-Roman, bodies. Would the wings be strong enough to carry all that marble? Good God, he was going mad. And the water was up to his waist. One more fight he must make for life, for nice dry clothes, for Mariuccia's golden fries, for his cigar andslippers andThe Archæological Reviewafter dinner. Also, of course, for the chance to undo the intended wrong to Giannella and get it erased from his account this side of judgment. He vowed miserably that if the mercy of God would but bring him safely out of this pit of destruction, his first act should be to tell Giannella everything and give her even the whole two hundred scudi to squander on shoes, ribbons, chocolates, theaters, anything she liked. And (yes, the water was certainly getting deeper) he would promise not to marry her unless she were quite willing. Higher than that, human nature could not rise.
When he had registered these generous vows he felt quite light-hearted as to eternity, and more confident of reaching physical safety. Now he was at the foot of the steps below the windows. Blessed steps. He had forgotten their existence. He scrambled up them and sank down on one, exhausted and dripping, but above the level of the flood. There was just enough daylight here for him to see the perils he had escaped. He shivered as he looked back on the expanse of black choppy water lost in the shadows from which he had come.
The sense of relief was great, but it was uncomfortably tempered by finding that a thin sheet of liquid was flowing over his cold seat, from the window above him, so he rose wearily and reached the window itself at last. Standing there clinging to the bars, he looked out at a changed upper world. The view seemed to embrace water everywhere. Well-known landmarks of old Ripetta, a pillar here,a battered statue there, a lamp-post all awry a little farther on—these seemed to be holding their own with difficulty in the shadow tossing stream which swept by, sending billow after billow through his opening and carrying past the strangest kind of flotsam in its course. An open umbrella came dancing towards him like an evil bird with claws to its wings; then a derelict hencoop from some poulterer's shop, followed first by a wicker cradle and then by a floating island of cabbages and carrots sustaining a pair of old boots. Not a human being was in sight, and the poor prisoner's heart sank within him, for he knew that only a speedy rescue could save him from the effects of the chill which already had him in its grip, causing his teeth to chatter pitifully.
Suddenly he gave a shout, and waved an arm wildly through the bars. Far down the street a boat had appeared, a boat with three or four men in it, surely one of the rescue parties which never fail to give aid in these periodical calamities. Heaven had taken pity on him; and at once he began to think that in his recent excitement he had promised Heaven too high a price for its mercies. Perhaps the arrangement would have to be revised; he must reflect seriously before permitting Giannella to embark on a course of extravagance and dissipation.
Again he waved his arms and shouted to the boat. Oh horror, it was turning round—he could see its side rocking in the swirl of the current—it was heading the other way! It was gone!
"Who is it that is missing?" Peppino had asked of Rinaldo as their boat was finally coaxed round the corner of Via Santafede into the Ripetta, shipping a good deal of muddy water in the process.
Rinaldo did not reply till this was bailed out; then, straightening himself and resuming his rowing, he replied, "Old Bianchi. You know him, boys, the archæologist. Those poor women think he is drowning somewhere. It is only on their account that I care what becomes of him."
"Bianchi? Bianchi?" came the chorus of scorn from three cheerful youths with a wholesome contempt for age and learning. "Ber Bacco!" "It requires a face! To take us off real work to look for that old bat!" "Know him, who doesn't? And who would so much as cross the street to help him?"
Rinaldo waited till he could make himself heard, then he said laughing at their protests, "You need not even do that. He is down there in Palazzo Cestaldini, with the Cardinal. See, it is on this side and quite near."
"Put about," came Peppino's sharp command, and Rinaldo was obliged to obey with the rest, who were executing the manœuver with much alacrity. "Now," Peppino continued, when they were once more heading down stream, "we will go where weare wanted, to help the bakers save their bread and the butchers their meat. Are we to let the city starve to-morrow, because old 'Brontolone' is sitting in peace and comfort with the Cardinal in the piano nobile of Palazza Cestaldini? What do those females take us for? Pull for Piazza Navora."
"As you will, heartless one," Rinaldo replied, "only we were so near that it would not have taken five minutes to assure ourselves that the old brigand was still there, and I could have called up to the women that he was safe."
"Of course he is safe," snorted Peppino. "The women must learn sense and have patience. There is man's work to do now. Look out."
They were turning a corner again and bumped into a big boat full of "guardie," the semi-military police who were responsible for the order of the city. The leader hailed them joyfully and at once attached them to his force for the rest of the day, a day of uncommonly hard work for the easy-going young men.
A strange sight met their eyes when they reached Piazza Navona. In spite of yesterday's warnings, flower sellers, fruit vendors, dealers in secondhand wares of every kind had installed themselves at break of day in their usual spots; and when, a few hours later, the sewers had suddenly gushed with improvised torrents, the unwary market people had lost their heads, and, unfortunately, a good deal of their property. The pyramid of huge water-melons piled round the base of the central obelisk now rose likea green island in a muddy sea. The two rococo fountains, fed from far away in the country through uncontaminated conduits, tossed their spray into the air and flung down sheets of pure crystal to meet the turbid, evil-smelling contributions which had submerged their basins; Bernini's grotesque Tritons grinned fixedly on the ever increasing disaster below them; and the long florid porch of the church of Sant' Agnese, raised on its marble steps above the danger level, was covered from end to end with salvage over which the owners were weeping and wringing their hands. One old crone stood leaning far out, fishing valiantly with her umbrella for a basket of lace which wobbled round just out of reach, its bundles of heavy, handmade edgings unrolling on the wavelets, while a bit of priceless old Venetian—such as collectors would love and the uninitiated regard as a rag—was twisting itself round the loosening laths of a towel-horse which had been its neighbor on the paving stones. Old books and engravings, prints of saints in prayer and goddesses in flirtation, danced along shoulder to shoulder with plucked chickens and bobbing lemons; some urchins on the church steps were daring each other to wade after the spoils of the frying stall, which still wafted entrancing odors of hot oil to their discriminating little noses.
After the first stress had been relieved Peppino and his comrades, known as they were for expert watermen, were told off to go through the lowlying streets nearest the river, where the inhabitants, driven, some hours earlier, from the ground floors to upper stories,might be in need of supplies. Well loaded with provisions they set out, stopping below the windows whence they were hailed, and sending up rations in the baskets which came swinging down on strings, the coppers for the food rattling inside them. Women called out, entreating the rescuers to go and look for missing men of the family; but there was no delaying for these appeals, and each and all received the truly Roman answer, "He is safe, we have just seen him." That not one of the party knew the name or face of the absent one made no difference at all. No loss of life had been reported or was likely to be, so the statement as to safety would probably be justified, while as to the other—well, distressed females must be pacified, and a good common-sense lie was the only practical means of doing that.
There were other calls, however, which were instantly responded to. In one house there was sudden sickness; a terrified woman screamed to the men, and Rinaldo caught the word "Miserere," the synonym for the fruit season scourge which slays in twelve hours. With all their might they pulled for the nearest apothecary, threatened him with instant death if he did not find his remedies in the twinkling of an eye, and then laid violent hands on him and bore him back to the stricken house, where they left him, disregarding his crazed entreaties that they would wait and take him home again.
Then came a still more urgent call; a woman was dying and wanted the priest. Noting the street and number they promised the scared relatives to bringone. Pausing for a moment they consulted as to the position of the nearest. Peppino remembered his topography while the others were still looking round them, and issued his orders. Some ten minutes later the crew pulled up before the front steps of San Severino, and agile Peppino bounded up them, three at a time, to summon the sacristan. Rinaldo was tired of sitting on the narrow thwart, and he too sprang out and stood on the steps, holding the boat with the boathook. All was so changed by the strange aspect of the flood that he at first failed to recognize the spot. His acquaintance with his parish church had been chiefly carried on through the back entrance, but as he stood looking up at the sky, which was clearing now, with sulky shafts from the low sun tearing red rifts in the inky clouds, a sense of familiarity came over him. Baring his heated brow he looked up, down, around. Why, of course, it was Giannella's church, and Giannella herself was only a few hundred yards away, waiting, with that adorable anxiety for him still in her eyes; weeping, perhaps, in her fear lest harm had come to him. He must get to her somehow, and tell her that he had not forgotten her for a moment (a brazen untruth, but how could any woman understand that even the most faithful masculine heart has no room for sentiment in the midst of action?), but that every oar and every pair of hands had been urgently needed throughout that long trying day. How glad she would be to see him. Though of course she would pretend to be still concerned about that animal,Bianchi, of whose society the Cardinal must be horribly tired by this time if he had not managed to ship him home already. There had not been a moment in which to attend to him, but Rinaldo felt that he could not go back to Giannella without having called at Palazzo Cestaldini at least: well, the day was drawing in, the boys were all tired and hungry; they must quit work soon. After this expedition with the priest, he himself would be free to go and execute the belated commission.
Ah, here he came, the good Father, reverently carrying the veiled chalice, accompanied by a frightened acolyte with a lighted taper, and Fra Tommaso, looking very serious and having much ado to hold up the umbrella canopy and not slip on the wet steps. As they approached, Rinaldo knelt with bared head; then he was on his feet, helping the priest to bestow himself and his precious burden safely. The sacristan knelt in the boat behind him, still sheltering him with the canopy, and the boy climbed in, grinning and delighted now with the novelty of the situation.
It made an impressive picture as the young men, bare-headed and silent, rowed fast down the yellow waterway, where the wavelets were crested with bronze gold in the low rays of the sunset. The priest, looking neither to right nor left, was praying in whispers, Fra Tommaso's deep tones striking in with Amens and responses; the lurid sunbeams glowed on his tonsured head, on the gold fringes of the canopy, on the young men's faces stilled to worship by the careful honor of their mission. It wasnot far to the house of death, a mean, discolored building in a narrow alley, where pale watchers looking out from the doorway told them they were still wanted, still in time.
The neighbors gathered at their windows, sympathetic and curious. Two or three women lighted candles and held them out in honor of the Santissimo. Then the rowers waited in silence for some twenty minutes, after which the padre reappeared, wrapped and prayerful as before, and he and his attendants were conveyed home.
"Now for supper," exclaimed Peppino. "I die of hunger."
"One moment," said Rinaldo. "We are close to Palazzo Cestaldini, I would just like to make an inquiry there."
There was another outcry from his companions, and at that moment they were all hailed by a passing boat, full of their friends of the River Society. "Come on, boys," they called, "we are all dismissed for the night. We are going to supper in Piazza Colonna—you follow us."
"In a moment," Rinaldo answered, "we have one little thing to do first."
"Nonsense!" protested the others. But Rinaldo was firm this time and the malcontents, calling the other boat alongside, clambered into it and shoved away. Peppino had remained with his friend.
"You could not get this clumsy thing along by yourself, you pig-headed brigand," he growled. "My poor outraged inside is crying for food, but I willcome with you. Pull now—mind that pillar. Here we are, but the portone is closed, and God knows how we are going to get in. Good heavens, what is that?" The current, carrying them swiftly along, had flung the boat-side against the protruding grating of a window just above its tide, and at the same instant a dripping object, apparently a corpse in spectacles, rose behind the bars, a clawlike hand caught at the gunwale, and a yell of entreaty assailed the rowers' ears.
"For the love of God, take me out! Take me out! I perish, I die! Madonna mia Santissima! Take me out!"
"Stop dragging at the boat," cried Peppino when he had recovered his breath. "Who are you? How did you get shut up here?"
"Go to the devil," retorted the shuddering apparition. "Is this a moment for questions? I have been in this sepulcher since the morning. Get me out, I say."
"Santo Dio," gasped Rinaldo, turning nearly as pale as the distracted suppliant, "you—you are Professor Bianchi. Oh, assassin that I am! Yes, I will get you out, instantly. Let go, let go, I can't pull you through the grating."
They had to tear his fingers off the gunwale, for the man was half delirious in his terror of being abandoned. Then with two or three strokes they reached the closed front door and pounded on it, shouting for the porter. Their cries attracted heads to the first-floor windows; Domenico, with thechaplain looking over his shoulder, leaned far out and asked what this scandalous uproar meant. Did they know where they were, these audacious ones? This was the Palazza Cestaldini, and the Eminenza was within. If they did not depart at once, the police should be summoned.
Rinaldo shouted down Domenico's reproofs, explaining with extraordinary fluency of invective that some dog, fathered by brigands and mothered by wolves, and doomed with twenty generations of picked ancestors, to eternal fires had kept Professor Bianchi imprisoned, in peril of death, in a flooded crypt, since the morning. Let some Christian, if there was one in that many times cursed household, open the portone and let him come to their victim's rescue.
Then indeed the faces above turned pale with consternation. Domenico vanished, and the chaplain, nearly falling out in his earnestness, clasped his hands and implored the gentleman to be quiet, to moderate the transports of his just indignation. The Eminenza was ill—to learn of this accident suddenly might be fatal to him. But at this point Rinaldo, still calling down the wrath of Heaven on all implicated in the tragedy, heard the heavy bolts withdrawn, and, through the slowly opening portal, saw men standing up to their knees in water and the steep ascent to the courtyard crowded with terrified servants.
Leaving Peppino to take care of the boat, he sprang out and landed among them like a firebrand. Infive minutes he had picked out some likely assistants and had them under orders, carrying ladders, ropes and lanterns down the dark stairway which led from a corner of the courtyard to the subterranean regions.
When they had followed him down to the last step above water in the crypt Rinaldo raised his lantern high above his head and peered across an inky sea to locate the Professor, but all he could make out was a crumpled heap sunk together on the stone platform beneath a window; and no glad cries came from it to answer his encouraging shouts. He tried the depth of the water at his feet and found some seven or eight feet of it; so there was only one thing to do: he coiled a rope round his body, placed one end in the hand of a trembling domestic, with frightful threats of what would overtake him should he let go, and then swam across to the outer wall. There he ran lightly up the steps and lifted the Professor, who had fallen on his face in collapse and unconsciousness at last. The reaction of relief when he had caught at the boat, the agony of disappointment on seeing himself, as his dazed senses told him, again forsaken, had been too much after the horrible experience of the day, and he lay in Rinaldo's arms an inert and heavy mass which it would be by no means easy to carry back. It would be better to have help, so Rinaldo shouted to the men on the steps to go and fetch his friend—and to see that the boat was made fast. A few minutes later Peppino's cheery call sounded up in the echoing darkness of thevaults, and the splash of his stroke as he shot through the water struck pleasantly on Rinaldo's ear.
Peppino turned white and shrank back when he touched Bianchi's clay-cold hand, but Rinaldo assured him that the man had only fainted—his heart was still beating. Between them they roped him to themselves, slipped smoothly into the water, and swam in perfect unison to the foot of the stairs. There Domenico and the chaplain fell on their necks almost weeping in their thankfulness and their admiration of what they called the young gentlemen's amazing courage. The boys shook them off, laughing, for the little feat was ease and simplicity itself; and then Rinaldo, picking up the still unconscious Professor, imperiously demanded a warm bed for his patient. In an incredible short time the poor chilled victim was rolled up in heated blankets, surrounded by scalding bricks, and Rinaldo made him swallow a draught, the hottest and fieriest that had ever passed his abstemious lips.
He was quite alive now, but a little light-headed. He shed copious tears of relief and weakness while he clung to and kissed Rinaldo's hand, called him Hermes, and vowed that if only he would grow a beard nobody would ever notice the place where his head was joined to his body.
Before all this was accomplished, the Cardinal's bell had been ringing repeatedly, and at last the chaplain and Domenico, the latter quaking with apprehension, presented themselves before him.
"What is this commotion that I have beenhearing?" the prelate asked quite sternly. "Twice and three times have I rung the bell and no one has come. I had never imagined that such remissness was possible. Explain."
"Eminenza," Domenico wailed, "there has been trouble, just a little trouble. Nothing serious. Let the Eminenza not be alarmed." This last in compliance to the young priest's grip of his arm and a frowning reminder that the Cardinal must not be agitated.
But Paolo Cestaldini was more than agitated, he was terribly incensed, when the whole miserable story, wrapped in palliations and excuses, was laid before him.
"What?" he cried, his usually gentle face lighted up with a flame of anger, "you actually left that good and illustrious man to suffer, to drown, to accuse you of his death before his Maker? You, Domenico, you never took the trouble to assure yourself that he had left the vault. It is only by Heaven's mercy and that brave young stranger's charity that you are not a murderer to-day. Coward, pagan, without heart, without conscience—how can I ever endure to have you near me again?"
"Eminenza, forgive him," the chaplain besought, "he could not know, he did not reflect. He has served you faithfully for so many years."
"Let the Eminenza have pity upon me!" Domenico implored, falling on his knees with uplifted hands. "I have sinned, yes—but indeed no reasoning person could have figured to himself that the SignorProfessore was still there. The Signor De Sanctis, the two workmen, they went away in the first moment of danger. Was he an infant that he could not follow them? And why did they leave him? Could they not have dragged him with them? Is he not old and thin? Eminenza mia buona, the fault is with them, not with me."
The Cardinal still frowned on his contrite retainer, but he was too just not to see that there was sense in his expostulations. He turned to the chaplain who was standing silently by. "Caro mio," he said, "do me the favor to return to our poor friend's bedside—he may require something. I must say a word to Domenico here." When they were left alone he addressed the major-domo: "You have been guilty of the gravest neglect and disobedience, my poor Domenico, for I sent you downstairs with express orders to ascertain whether the Professor was still below. You gave one look from the upper step, you saw water, you returned, very frightened, without having even asked the porter whether he had seen him go out. I shall forgive you this time, and I must in justice admit that you were not the only culprit. Certainly Signor De Sanctis should have let someone know that the other gentleman had remained behind. But I suppose that he was too alarmed and thought only of himself. See, my son, what comes of selfishness! It is the ugliest of all the sins, the one which Satan finds ready to his hand in every human heart. It makes a man of education as stupid and cruel as thebeasts. Hell would be to let in a day but for selfishness."
"Yes, indeed, Eminenza," said Domenico quickly. He always knew that he was forgiven when his master embarked on a sermon and that light of charity and sorrow began to shine in his eyes. But the sermons were apt to be long, and just now the old man knew that he might be wanted elsewhere. The Cardinal's physician had been summoned to attend the Professor, remedies would be ordered, a servant would have to be dispatched somehow to the apothecary—and what with the flood and the accident, the servants were like a pack of frightened children this evening! Oh, a dozen matters were certainly requiring his attention at the other end of the house; he was the central wheel of the big solemn establishment, the channel for every order, the paymaster for every bill—and so jealous of his proud cares that no other member of the household was ever allowed to act on his own initiative for a moment. Everything began and ended with Sor Domenico—so the beloved Eminenza must be induced to dismiss him promptly, or a lot of stupid mistakes would be made. With the deftness of long habits he seized the first opportunity of taking up the parable against himself.
"Oh yes, Eminenza," he said very earnestly, "we are all—except your illustrious self, of course—dreadful sinners in that way—egoists of the most evil kind. The Eminenza will pray for me, and I will humbly try to correct the fault in future.Meanwhile my heart is anxious about the Signor Professore. The young gentleman who so nobly rescued him may require my presence—"
"Go, go, my son," exclaimed the Cardinal, "let Signor Bianchi want for nothing. It will be an eternal remorse to me that this terrible accident should have happened in my house, and we cannot do enough to repair our fault. Meanwhile please ask that young man to come to me here that I may thank him for his most valuable help. God was truly merciful to send him to us. I shall not know how to express my gratitude."
Domenico departed, and in a few minutes the chaplain came to say that Signor Goffi (he had ascertained his name) had asked permission to withdraw at once, being very wet and not in a proper condition to present himself before the Eminenza. If he might be allowed, he would come and pay his respects to-morrow. And the doctor, who had now arrived, entreated the Cardinal not to visit the Signor Professore this evening. He must be kept very quiet, a sleeping draught, which should have a most beneficent effect, had been administered, and the doctor would remain through the night if necessary. He was confident that the patient would be much better in the morning. Let the Eminenza lay all anxiety aside and remember to take another dose of quinine himself at nine o'clock, also the orange-flower water in order to sleep peacefully after this deplorable shock to his nerves.
When night fell over the half-drowned city it seemed to Giannella that ten years of suspense and misery had been compressed into a single day. The few moments of wild happiness which had illuminated her sky during Rinaldo's visit had only made the creeping hours afterwards the more unbearable. As the weight of anxiety increased and no news came of either Rinaldo or Bianchi, Mariuccia's temper became almost savage; and Giannella, her hot Scandinavian blood roused at last, suddenly turned on her and told her that instead of cursing the flood, the city, and all connected with it she ought to be down on her knees praying for those who were in danger and asking pardon for her hard-heartedness in sending the bravest and kindest of men to look for a selfish old fellow who could be trusted to take the very best care of himself.
Mariuccia stopped short in her stride from window to window and stared at the girl in amazement. Giannella's eyes were blazing, her cheeks scarlet, her very hair, usually so goldenly smooth, was flying round her forehead in wild disorder. Her hands were clenched, and she brought her heel down on the bricks with a stamp which shook the rickety old floor.
"You have killed him, I know you have," she cried, all the torrent of her pent-up wretchedness findingvoice in the cry. "You old people are all alike, only caring for dried-up old creatures like yourselves. We—we, the young ones, who can think of something besides musty books and dirty old statues and scraped pennies—we who can love, and suffer for others, we are nothing. We may break our hearts and cry our eyes out, and consume with anguish, and nobody cares. 'Gioventú'—youth—you say, and shrug your shoulders, and forget all about it. Where is Rinaldo, my fidanzato, I should like to know? Oh, you need not look so shocked—he is my betrothed, and we will be married whether you or the padrone or fifty thousand other cruel old people want us to or not. Madonna mia, who is that?"
Across the torrent of her anger a long knocking had broken, and the cracked bell in the passage was jangling on its wires. Both the women changed color. It was the first sound that had come to them from the outer world since the morning, and it meant tidings. Good? Bad? Their hearts stood still. Mariuccia, the hardy old peasant, gave out the most completely, sinking down on a chair with both hands on her knees and the sweat breaking out on her brow. Giannella stood rigid by the table, staring towards the door. Then came a second knock, loud and sharp. She sprang to life and flew to answer it. As she tore at the chain and bolts, a word came through, the sweetest she had ever heard: "Giannella, is it you?"
Then the door was open, there was a stifled cry, and Giannella's head was buried on her lover'sshoulder, his arms held her to his heart, his kisses were on her hair—Rinaldo had come back.
How they rejoiced over him! Mariuccia laid violent hands on the padrone's stores and cooked him a supper which he never forgot. He told them, in carefully mitigated form, of the poor Professor's adventure, dwelling much on the honor and comfort he was now enjoying and as little as possible on the painful incarceration which had preceded it. Mariuccia flushed with pride and delight when she learned that her master was the guest of the revered Cardinal Cestaldini, and Giannella listened with glowing eyes to the account of the rescue, telling herself over and over again that her Rinaldo was the most valiant of heroes for so cleverly and bravely going to the padrone's assistance. If Rinaldo's part in the exploit lost nothing in the telling it was only because the young man was too triumphantly happy to deprecate the applause which Giannella lavished upon him. When at last Mariuccia ordered him to bed in Bianchi's room—for she would not hear of his attempting to return to his own lodging that night—he fell asleep in a whirl of excitement, warmed, comforted, assured of the future, and indescribably happy to feel that his beautiful, loving Giannella was under the same roof with him, dreaming of him, somewhere on the other side of the dingy whitewashed wall.
He awoke the next morning dazed and puzzled at his surroundings and rather stiff and sore from the exposure and fatigues of the day before; but he hadscarcely opened his eyes when Mariuccia entered with a cup of steaming coffee, and his clothes, already carefully dried and pressed, folded over her arm. It was so long since he had had a woman to take care of him that his heart went out to her, and hers was always ready to mother another child. So he told her that she was an angel, and she said he was a good boy—and their compact for life was sealed.
When he came out into the kitchen a little later Giannella was giving the last touches to a truly Roman summer breakfast, delicate wafers of smoked ham on one plate, a pile of fresh figs, pale emerald globes, each carrying its dewdrop of honey at the tip, on another. An enterprising "fruttarolo" had wheeled his handcart up the Via Santafede at sunrise and the string and basket had done the rest. A few fresh carnations, pulled from the cherished window plants, stood in a glass with sprigs of lavender, and the repentant sunbeams played on a straw-bound flask of red wine and a carafe of sparkling Trevi water. The windows were open, the sky was blue; across the way Fra Tommaso's flowers were lifting their heads again in a fringe of white and red, and the pigeons were circling and calling to each other. The setting of the picture was all that was gay and sweet, but the picture itself was so enchanting that Rinaldo saw little else just then. Some rarer gold seemed to have been shed on Giannella's hair this morning, there was a new tenderness in her gray eyes, and her heart was so full of happiness that she smiled unconsciously, and at any chance word elusivedimples of laughter showed themselves at the corners of her pretty mouth. The brightness of the day and the ease at her heart had made her unwilling to put on her old dark dress. She had found, among a few things of her mother's which Mariuccia had kept for her, a faded muslin, white sprigged with pink, and this she had shaken out and put on, pinning a flower where the open neck sank away from her fair throat, and a ribbon round the long old-fashioned waist. Mariuccia understood, and nodded approvingly when Giannella came out of her little room looking like a rose in bloom; and Rinaldo, when he joined them, understood too, and took her hands in his and whispered, "Good-morning, sposina mia."
The storm was over and the sun had begun to shine on Rome again, and on Giannella's life at last; and though happiness was such a new thing to her, she knew it for what it was and took it to her heart in all simplicity, in perfect trust that it would never fail her again.
When Rinaldo was lighting his first cigarette Mariuccia announced that, come what might, she was going to see for herself how the padrone was getting on. She was sure he must need her after all he had gone through—and he only just getting over that dreadful cold, poverino—and of course there was nobody in the Cardinal's household who could replace her at his bedside. What good were a lot of men to a sick person, she would like to know?
Rinaldo did not say that he was doubtful of her reception in the strictly celibate domicile, but heprotested that no woman could get through the streets. The water had already subsided considerably, but it still lay deep in some places while others were an expanse of mud and slush not to be braved by petticoats. All this moved Mariuccia not at all; she had made up her obstinate old mind, and all Rinaldo obtained was that she would wait another hour or two. Then he would try to pilot her to the Via Tresette, from which one could gain the narrow alley leading to the back entrance of Palazzo Cestaldini, a facility which had only been revealed to himself the night before. In spite of his assurances that the doctor would certainly not allow the Professor to be moved for two or three days, Mariuccia insisted on preparing her master's bedroom for his reception. A huge warming-pan was placed in his bed, the window was tightly closed, and sundry acrid-smelling herbs were set on the fire for a "decotto" according to an ancient country prescription quite infallible against the results of a chill.
While she came and went, Rinaldo and Giannella sat and talked in low tones. All their future lay before them to play with and every detail of it was an enchanting subject to plan and think for. Now that he was so near her Rinaldo felt that it would be absurd to wait till October to be married, five whole weeks. No, that joyful event should take place as soon as the appartamentino could be furnished, and Giannella must come with him and choose every single thing. What sort of paper would she like in the salotto—amber color, or mazarin blue with gold flowers? (Both were much admired, he heard.) Asfor the bedroom, Rinaldo had seen that of a newly-married friend, and the walls were covered with pink roses as big as cabbages tied with blue ribbon. Oh, it was most beautiful, and so gay. Giannella would be sure to like it, and the roses would make it seem like summer all the year round.
The roses flushed up in Giannella's cheeks just then; she became silent, and finally dropped her eyes before Rinaldo's steady ardent gaze. "What is it, my angel?" he asked, leaning forward anxiously. "Does it not make you happy to know that you will so soon, in a few days, core of my heart—be my own little wife?"
"Too happy—I am too happy," she replied. "It almost hurts. Give me time, amore mio—a girl must take breath."
"Plenty of time to do that between now and next Sunday!" he declared. "Five whole days. Is that not enough? I wish it could be to-morrow, to-day."
"Five days," cried Giannella. "But, Rinaldo, we could not be ready for weeks. Think of all there is to do. Papering, furnishing, the linen to get and sew—oh, it is dreadful that you should have all this great expense, that I cannot do even a little to help in it. If they had only let me earn money during these years. It is terrible to feel that I have been so useless."
"Giannella mia," said Rinaldo, looking very wise, "I will tell you a secret. I do not believe I should ever have fallen in love with a woman who was earning her living. It takes something away—somethingvery light, very delicate—I am too stupid to explain it properly—but just what makes a woman adorable. It would break my heart if one of my sisters should think of doing such a thing. What are the men there for? We are very simple people, I and my family, but we are too proud for that. If we cannot keep our women in decency and comfort, we might as well throw ourselves into the river at once."
"But I had no family," said Giannella; "but for Mariuccia, and the padrone who let me stay here with her, I should have been brought up to a trade, like other poor girls."
Rinaldo interrupted her with something like sternness. "Giannella, once for all, please forget all that. Thank Heaven Mariuccia understood her responsibilities and carried them out nobly. We will make it all up to her. And Signor Bianchi is not and has never been your 'padrone.' Please stop speaking of him in that manner. Your father was a gentleman and you belong to his class. The word 'padrone' offends me."
"I would never do that," she cried, "forgive me, my heart. It is just a habit that I have grown up with, because Mariuccia always speaks of the Professor like that. But I too must tell you something. We cannot—be married—quite so soon as you wish, because I am still determined that those two, Signor Bianchi and the Princess, must be quite reconciled and willing. Oh, you do not know how much I love you—it would kill me to be parted from you. But when I come to our dear, pretty appartamentinoI must leave peace behind me. Then I can bring peace with me. Disturbances, contradictions, there must be none of these to remember on that day. Signor Bianchi must be our good friend always. He will be much happier like that, and will soon forget that he ever had this silly caprice about wanting to marry me. And the Principessa has been good to me. But for her, amore mio, I should be an ignorant, untaught creature, quite unfit to be your wife. So you owe her some gratitude, and I a great deal. When you see her and explain everything she will be sure to agree with you—who could help it? And it is not long to wait. She will return in the beginning of October."
"And take another six weeks to find time to see me—and six more to make up her mind," was Rinaldo's scornful reply. "You are quite right, Giannella, we certainly ought to have her most excellent blessing, but I shall go to Santafede to get it. I do not mind that, my dear. I would travel round the world to please you. As for Bianchi—I am going to ask the Cardinal to bring him to reason as soon as the old fellow is able to listen to it. Your gentle heart shall be satisfied, and then—"
"Then," said Giannella, suddenly bending over and laying her fresh lips on his hand, "then there will not be one little cloud in my whole world. You will have to pretend to be cross with me sometimes, to keep me from dying of happiness."
Mariuccia came and stood beside them, her hands on her hips and a funny grimace in her old face."When you have done chattering, you two," she said, "perhaps you will condescend to remember that we must go out. I am not in love—and I want to get my padrone into his own bed. It is nearly twelve o'clock." And she smiled down on them benevolently.
Giannella ran off to change her dress, and soon returned, a bit of lovely primness in her black frock, with the lace coif over her smooth hair. The house was locked up and they all went down together. By picking their steps carefully they reached their destination without patent disaster, and were received by Domenico—Rinaldo warmly, but the women with the reserve proper to an ecclesiastical household, where such visitors came but rarely and were not encouraged. Leaving them all in the second anteroom the major-domo went to inform his master of their arrival.
"Eminenza, I grieve to disturb you"—this was the invariable opening of Domenico's communications—"but that young gentleman, Signor Goffi, is in the sala, with two females who wish to see Signor Bianchi. And Signor Goffi—he seems most respectable and polite—begs the great favor of a few minutes' audience. I told him that I would ask, but that of course—at this hour—"
"But yes, of course I will see him," the Cardinal exclaimed. "Have I not to thank him for averting the most terrible of disasters? Who are the women?" he inquired, with instinctive suspicion of anything in petticoats.
"An old servant and a young lady—rather pretty," Domenico responded. "They say they live with the Signor Professore, and are anxious about his health."
"Tell them to wait a minute," said his master. "Bring Signor Goffi to me, and then go and see if the Professor is well enough to be troubled with these persons. And one thing more, Domenico. You say that the water has subsided in the streets—send a man at once to Signor De Sanctis, and ask him to favor me with a visit as soon as he conveniently can. I am anxious to hear his explanation of his unusual conduct yesterday."
Out in the sala the two women were conversing in whispers, a little overawed by the stillness and the majesty of their surroundings, though Mariuccia took on a certain air of proprietorship and looked quite scornfully at the lacqueys in the outer room, mere hired servants who could boast no connection with the finest family on earth. She, Mariuccia Botti, belonged to the Cestaldini, and had a right to feel at home in the palace which, she informed Giannella, was not nearly so grand as the one at Castel Gandolfo.
Rinaldo meanwhile was elaborating the idea with which Giannella's remonstrances had inspired him. Personally he did not care a fig what Bianchi might think or feel about their marriage, but since she wished him to smile on it, smile he must, and fortune was putting into Rinaldo's hands the very best means of accomplishing that miracle. The Professor,still shuddering under the impression of yesterday's horrible fright, should be brought to open his heart to his gallant rescuer (why throw away the benefit of a good action?) and the Cardinal, the great holy Cardinal, who could preach so eloquently that he could cause the most hardened sinners to be dissolved with contrition, he should use his authority and persuasion to effect this happy result. Now he must think of how best to lay his case before the prelate, and as he sat in the sala, staring at the high armoried canopy which indicated that this was a princely house, he pondered whether to begin his appeal in a strain of noble, reckless passion such, as would touch an ordinary man of the world, or, more appropriately, in one of gentle humility. The latter seemed more advisable on the whole, and he began to rehearse an opening declaration of modesty and single-heartedness—in all of which, despite his sense of dramatic fitness, the good fellow would have claimed no more than his due, when Giannella turned to him with a little remark. He looked into her sweet, intelligent face and all apprehension left him. He felt that he had but to remember it and the right words would be given to him. Oh, that he could show her to the great man whose interest he wished to arouse. There would be small need for his own pleading after that. Who would not be glad to serve her?
Then Domenico appeared, to conduct Rinaldo to the Cardinal. He told the women that the doctor was with the Signor Professore; would they wait a little and he would find out whether they could see him afterwards?
When Domenico inquired whether the Professor's servant might come in to see her master, the physician shook his head. "Better not," he said, "the patient is very weak and nervous still, and has fever. I cannot say whether it will abate at once. It is possible he may need great care for several days. And you know what these good females are, Sor Domenico. They weep, they wring their hands, they suggest sending for the priest, and frighten the poor creature into believing he is about to expire. Also they have ancient and noxious remedies used by their great-grandmothers for sore fingers, which they will administer to typhoid cases on the sly—and throw the doctor's medicines out of the window. I have known them give a fever patient a plate of beans because he happened to fancy it! No, the Signor Professore is better without any visitors at present. Tell these women that he is improving rapidly, that he is asleep—say that I have ordered him to have two pounds of beefsteak for his dinner. They will believe anything and that will reassure them. But mind you give him nothing but the soup, and the orzata if he is thirsty. I will return this evening."
Domenico nodded comprehendingly, showed the doctor out and, when the door had closed on him, gave Mariuccia his report with a little added color andembroidery to make it more convincing. The old woman listened eagerly, and, on receiving a rather rash promise that she should see her master the next day, declared herself satisfied, but asked leave to wait until the Signorino Goffi should be dismissed by his Eminence. She had the signorina with her—Domenico bowed perplexedly to Giannella, whose status was by no means clear to him—and the streets were in a dreadful condition still, Mariuccia explained, not fit for two women alone to traverse. Domenico, all politeness, begged them to be seated, and assured them that the Signorino Goffi would rejoin them shortly; he was about to retire when another visitor entered, the lawyer De Sanctis, looking troubled and out of breath. The messenger had told him the story of the Professor's adventure and had (after the manner of Italian servants, who consider themselves and are considered a part of the family) given him a friendly warning that the Eminenza was "proprio inchieto," very much annoyed by what had happened, and would in all likelihood administer some severe reproof to the Signor Avvocato. Sor Domenico had received a terrific scolding, and it was understood in the house that but for the intercession of Don Ignazio, the Eminenza's chaplain, he and the porter and one or two others would have been dismissed on the spot. The kind-hearted fellow suggested two or three good lies as possible excuses, but De Sanctis knew that these would not pass with his clear-sighted patron. He must take his scolding as best he might—and revenge himselffor it some day by discrediting Bianchi with the Cardinal. That would be easy enough, as things stood.
He was being conducted through the sala to await his turn elsewhere, when he caught sight of Giannella. He halted, looked again at her and her companion, and whispered to Domenico that he had a word to say to the young lady; there was no need to wait for him; he would be in the room beyond when the Eminenza should condescend to send for him. And Domenico, glad to be dismissed, hurried off to attend to his many duties.
Then De Sanctis came towards Giannella with a pleasant smile of recognition. "Signorina Brockmann," he said, "I fear you do not remember me," for Giannella was meeting his glance with some surprise, "yet it was I who had the pleasure of bringing you the news of your accession to fortune some little time ago. How easily we become accustomed to agreeable things! You have perhaps forgotten that you were not always rich."
Giannella had risen from her seat when he began to speak, but her face was grave and cold. There was a touch of familiarity in his tone which offended her. As he continued, however, her expression changed to one of blank incomprehension. It was patent to De Sanctis that Bianchi had never told her about her inheritance. The shabby dress, the running out on mean errands, the discrepancies which had puzzled him, were explained now. He had not had long to wait for his pretty little revenge. Here was aweapon with which to turn the Cardinal's just wrath in quite a new direction. He smiled on the girl gratefully for providing him with it.
"I remember you perfectly, sir," Giannella said at last, "but I do not understand to what you allude. There is a mistake. You must be thinking of some other person."
Neither of them had noticed Mariuccia, who, through the colloquy, had been staring at the lawyer with an ominous frown. She remembered him, she recognized him, the visitor to whom she had wished twenty thousand apoplexies in the last three months.
Pushing Giannella aside she came before him, her eyes like fiery gimlets boring for the truth—a rough-tongued, hard-handed Nemesis prepared to chastise the disturber of household peace. "Ah, it is you!" she began in a scornful growl, "Now perhaps you will tell me what wickedness it was that you put into my poor padrone's head when you came to see him? Till that day he was an angel, good, pacific, regulated, thinking only of his studies, his blessed archæology and his bits of stones, asking only that his house should be quiet and his meals punctual and cheap. Never did he require more of us two poor creatures than that—and as for matrimony—he would have run away if anybody had had the temerity to speak to him of such folly. What should he want with a wife at fifty-five, when he never wanted one at the proper time? You come, Master Lawyer, and a thousand caprices come with you and make an earthquake in his poor head! This child and I have had no rest! Hewants to marry the poor little thing,marryher, with the clothes she stands up in, a girl without a penny, who already works for him without wages, as if she were my daughter and not a lady born. Did you tell him, O assassin, that she is big enough and strong enough to do the work of two? Does he want to send me away after twenty years' service, to save my miserable wages—all that she and I have in the world—and make her his wife so that she will have to work for him, gratis, forever? Ah, that was it, was it? You said to him, 'Sor Professore mio, why feed two females and pay one when you need only feed one and pay her nothing? That old strega, Mariuccia, will soon be aged and of little use. Giannella knows how to do everything now. Marry her, so that she can live alone with you, and get rid of the other at once.' Yes, that is what you advised, infidel, imprudent," thundered the enraged seeress, "and you have committed a damnable sin, for which the devil who taught it to you shall kick your soul and the souls of all your ugly little dead about in hell for a thousand years! Madonna mia, how could such wickedness enter a man's heart?"
During this long impassioned address De Sanctis had stood quite still, never taking his eyes from his adversary's face till she stopped, gasping for breath, with clenched hands that seemed twitching to get at his throat. Giannella was clinging to her arm and had been keeping up a stream of remonstrances and entreaties that she would cease to insult the gentleman, would refrain from making such a scandalous uproarin the Cardinal's house. But all to no purpose. Mariuccia shook her off as a wolfhound would shake off a spaniel, and only paused, as it seemed, to find breath and inspiration for another tirade.
De Sanctis had allowed her to say her say, for every word she uttered only made the Professor's perfidy more plain; now his legal integrity was sitting in judgment on the offender, while his personal grudge against the man fed joyfully on the proofs of his double dealing. Having learned all that he wished to know, he spoke to Mariuccia, angrily enough. "You are a silly, ignorant woman, and you have been saying things for which you will beg my pardon on your knees! You think you know what I came to say to your master, do you? Well, listen, and never again, so long as you live, dare to insult an honorable and innocent person with vile suspicions. Yes, I thought the Professor was like myself, an upright man, a man to be trusted. I thought he had been the lifelong friend and helper of this young lady. And, as she was still under age, I placed in his hands the wonderful fortune which, largely through my disinterested efforts in discovering her, had come to her from her father's brother in Denmark. Ah, you tremble, you turn pale. Yes, that was what I came to tell Signor Bianchi—and the brigand has never informed her of it—that Giannella Brockmann had become a rich girl with an income of two thousand scudi, left her by her uncle, two thousand big silver scudi every year, all for herself; that she is no longer obliged to liveon charity, but is now a young lady with a dowry that will ensure her a good husband and a comfortable establishment whenever she chooses. I came as the bearer of this beautiful news—and you insult me as if I were an executioner!"
The last part of this speech was lost on his audience. Mariuccia had sunk back on a chair, her face gray with emotion, and Giannella was kneeling beside her, covering her gnarled hands with kisses and crying through a rain of happy tears, "Mariuccia, do you understand? I am rich, rich, and now I can repay you for all your goodness to me. You shall have clothes, shoes, meat, old wine—a new bed for your poor tired body, with soft blankets—two thousand scudi—every year, for always? Oh, you shall have a gold chain as thick as my finger and earrings with pearls as big as figs. Oh, what have I done that such happiness should come to me, Madonna mia Santissima—I shall die of joy."
Not a thought for herself, nor even for Rinaldo; not a glimmer of resentment against Bianchi; only the passion of gratitude nearly breaking her heart because it could be satisfied at last.
Mariuccia bent down and kissed the golden head. Then she took the girl's face in her two hands and looked into it long and silently, a light on her own that had never shone there before. She tried to speak, but could not; only, two slow tears trickled down her cheeks. Giannella put up her soft fingers and brushed them away.
"The very last you shall ever shed, Mariuccia mia," she murmured; "we know, we two, what it has been. Domine Dio, it is all over!"
Then the old woman rose to her feet and flung up her arms with a magnificent gesture of thanksgiving, like a prophetess beholding the victories of justice, the justifications of her God. "After twenty years you have heard me, Mother of Mercy!" she cried, "Protector of the fatherless, Consoler of the afflicted, blessed be your most sweet Name for ever and ever!"
De Sanctis turned away and walked to a farther window, where he stood looking out and seeing nothing. His little fabric of false values had tumbled to pieces. His shallow appreciations of human nature had scaled off like a rotten shroud from a re-risen body. His own astuteness, of which he had been so proud, Bianchi's dishonest avarice, the low aims and rabid egoism with which he credited mankind at large—these were not the spirit level by which to measure real men and women. That was set by honest hearts incapable of selfish grief or sordid joy, by Goffi, the obscure little artist, entreating his aid to obtain a penniless bride, by the girl over there, pure of worldly taint, by the ignorant old woman who had threatened him and his dead with hell. He had looked deep into the hearts of all three, and had seen into gold and crystal. Being only a prosaic Roman he did not put it so poetically. "Good folk, good kind folk," he told himself. "Beati loro! They are the happy ones. I wonder if there are many more of them in the world?"
When he looked round again he found that he was alone. No flooded streets, no hesitations of timidity, could weigh with those two rejoicing women. They were hastening to San Severino to give thanks where thanks were due.
In the Cardinal's study Rinaldo, sitting on the very edge of a chair with his hat on his knees, was looking eagerly into the benevolent face of the prelate. The latter was expressing his thanks in the exquisite Italian of the Roman noble; his hand, with his big amethyst ring, fingered a malachite paper weight on the writing-table; his fine head, crowned with the red berretta, reposed against the crimson damask of his chair, for he was still languid from his recent indisposition. Rinaldo was really thinking less of what the Cardinal said than of the delightful picture he made—so different from the forlorn lay figure stuck into the property chair and draped in the red tablecloth that the artist felt as if he ought to do penance for all the calumnies on cardinals that he had persuaded the dealers to buy from him. Oh, if this beautiful old gentleman would let him paint his portrait, here in the sober grandeur of his proper surroundings, with the long sunbeam falling across his ring and sending its reflection up into his eyes. Was it altogether out of the question? Oh, of course. He was not distinguished enough to venture to suggest such a thing. What was this that the Cardinal was saying?
"So you see, Signor Goffi, that I have reason to be profoundly grateful to you. But for your charity and courage my poor friend might have had toremain yet longer in that terrible situation, and it is doubtful whether he should have survived further exposure. And I had encouraged him to go down there! Never can I forgive myself my thoughtlessness and selfishness. I grieve to say that he is rather seriously indisposed, but the doctor thinks that with care he will soon recover. I pray that it may be so. And now, tell me, is there any way in which I can serve you? To me it would be the greatest of pleasures—and old people can sometimes be useful to young ones, you know."
The charming urbanity of the tone, the courtesy which so delicately annihilated the distance between a great noble, a prince of the Church, and his unknown, middle-class self, touched Rinaldo deeply, and set his heart beating with hope as he considered how best to frame his request. The Cardinal saw that something was coming, and there was a gentle twinkle in his eyes as he looked at his visitor. The candid, handsome young face appealed to the inner spring of youth which life may seal but never dry up in certain pure warm hearts. Rinaldo felt the expressed goodwill as he might have become sensible of unexpected warmth in the light of a fixed star; it shed a pleasant radiance from very far away. Indeed they two could scarcely have been farther apart had they lived till now on separate planets. There was no merging of class and class in Rome, then. A prominent dignitary of the Church moved in his own sphere of half-mystic greatness, linked with all things sacred and regal. Except for a question of souls, he did not, in the ordinaryaffairs of life (unless he happened to have risen from the ranks himself), take any personal cognizance of those outside his circle, ecclesiastical, political, and social. Paolo Cestaldini had never heard of this young man till the night before, and apart from the fact that he had nice manners, and evidently belonged to the educated "mezzo ceto" had not the slightest clue by which to judge of his circumstances.
"Well," he said encouragingly, "what is it, my son? I see that your heart has a desire. If it be possible for me, it would be my felicity to satisfy it."
"Oh, Eminenza," Rinaldo cried, "there is indeed something, if it would not give you too great trouble to confer the greatest of benefits upon me. Not as a recompense for the little service I was able to render last night—any man would have done the same—and my friend, Sacchetti, helped me—but if, out of the great goodness of your heart, you would speak a word to Professor Bianchi, and tell him how wrong—" Rinaldo paused, alarmed at the sudden sternness of the prelate's expression.
"And what is it that I am to tell the distinguished Professor?" All the encouragement was gone from the Cardinal's tone as he asked the question. That an unknown youth should suggest criticism, actual condemnation of anything in the conduct of a great light of science, his own revered friend, appeared to him as a monstrous piece of impertinence.
But Rinaldo, conscious of the justice of his cause, caught boldly at the receding opportunity. "YourEminence will pardon me when I explain what must sound so presumptuous," he said firmly. "The case is this: In the Professor's house there is a young girl whom I wish to marry. We love each other sincerely. She is good and beautiful, but very poor, an orphan whom the Professor's servant adopted and brought up. She helps the old woman to wait on him, and though her father was a gentleman and she has received a good education, she has for years past been contented to regard herself as Signor Bianchi's servant and to be so regarded by him. A short time ago he suddenly declared that he wished to marry her—"
"Marry her?" the Cardinal exclaimed, sitting up straight in his chair. "The Professor wanted to marry—a young girl? His servant? But what are you telling me, Signor Goffi? Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, Eminenza, strange as it may seem," Rinaldo replied. "Giannella had no wish to marry him—the poor child shrank with horror from the idea, and Mariuccia—that is the old woman—would not hear of it. But he persisted, and at last induced the most excellent Princess Santafede to interest herself on his behalf. Perhaps your Eminence does not know that her Excellency had the great kindness to send Giannella to the convent, where she received a beautiful education?"
The Cardinal bent his head. "I remember hearing something of it," he said. Then he smiled involuntarily at the recollection of Fra Tommaso'simpassioned appeal about a little girl and a poor woman from Castel Gandolfo. He had quite forgotten the circumstance till now.
"Well," Rinaldo continued, "her gratitude to the Princess and the natural respect she felt for such a great and good lady made Giannella desirous of obeying her in all things possible, and when her Excellency told her that she should be only too thankful to find a disinterested and honorable protector like Signor Bianchi, and that it was clearly her duty to accept him—Giannella thought it might really be wrong to disobey."
The Cardinal gave an amused little groan. He had often warned his sister that, like many pious ladies, she was too eager to pilot young women into respectable homes. She had found husbands for three girls during the past year; one had proved fairly satisfactory, but the others had not turned out well. One poor thing had run away, no one knew whither, because her husband maltreated her, and the other was now working like a galley slave to support an idle man. And now he learned that, undeterred by these failures, she was planning another matrimonial mistake! Really, Teresa must be more prudent.
Rinaldo went on after a short pause, "That was before Giannella and I quite understood each other, Eminenza. Now I do not think she would ever consent, but it will grieve us both to make an enemy of Signor Bianchi, and Giannella wishes to have the approval of her Excellency. I asked the avvocato De Sanctis to do something, since it was after a visitfrom him that this strange caprice seemed to have taken possession of the Professor, but I have heard nothing more from him—and time passes and Giannella is in a very disagreeable situation in the Professor's house. Oh, Eminenza, I want so much to take my sposina to my own home and make her happy. I work hard, I have had good fortune of late—I can support her. Will you, of your great condescension, persuade Signor Bianchi that she is not for him, and make him acquiesce in our marriage—and also please obtain for us the consent of the Princess? Without that Giannella will not be content. We would bless you from our hearts and pray for you every time we went to Mass."
The Cardinal had looked very grave since the mention of De Sanctis. He recalled the pretty story of secret benevolence and ensuing good fortune which he had found so consoling to a Christian heart. He marshaled the facts in his mind and sorrowfully admitted to himself that they were not edifying. It would have been bad enough to learn that a distinguished, middle-aged man had lost his head about a pretty girl, a mere child in comparison with himself; but the Cardinal could have forgiven that. His long experience of human nature had taught him that no vagaries were too wild to become facts where the relations of man and woman were concerned. But there was something worse here, something so ugly that it pierced his heart with pain to recognize it for what it was—black mortal sin, covetousness, double dealing, an apparent intention to defraud a defenselessgirl of her liberty and her property, since the goods of the wife would pass absolutely into the keeping of the husband unless a pre-matrimonial contract were made to secure them to her. And the man who was apparently planning this cruelty had long been his own friend, his comrade in the delights of high intellectual pursuits. The thing was horrible. He shuddered and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, praying for light on his own duty in the matter.
Rinaldo saw that his statement had gone home, and he did not venture to interrupt the prelate's train of thought. At last the latter raised his head, and his face looked sad and tired. His first duty at least was clear to him already. The young people must not learn of the poor sinner's fault if it were possible to keep it from them; he would repent in time—had perhaps repented already, by the grace of God, and the future must not be made harder for him by publicity and scandal.
"Figlio mio," he said very gently, "this is a strange story, and although I am sure you believe it yourself, I must know a little more before I can, with any propriety, venture to advise the Signor Professore on such delicate and private affairs. You are quite right in wishing to reconcile him, and also my sister, to your marriage. The Princess is in villeggiatura at present, but I will communicate with her. As for Signor De Sanctis, he is my man of business, and I am expecting him this morning. With your permission," here the fine old head bent towards Rinaldo with exquisite courtesy, "I will speak to him of thismatter, and I have little doubt that a harmonious settlement can be arrived at. You see, I am taking you on trust, my son. I hope that your intentions regarding this young girl are as upright as they appear; and also, if you will pardon an old man for speaking so frankly, that your own life is orderly and pious; that you practice our holy religion and keep away from bad companions. You must not be incensed at my suggesting such questions. Matrimony is a holy state, and many plunge into it all unprepared to fulfill its obligations."
"Eminenza," Rinaldo replied, "I thank you most sincerely for taking so much interest in my welfare, and I will answer your questions veraciously. As for my morals—well, I have been too poor to have any vices, and I was well brought up by good, kind parents, to whom I have not done sufficient honor, but whom I have tried not to grieve. I have worked hard, the masters at the Academy were satisfied with me, and I obtained the silver medal before I left. The president of the Boating Society will tell your Eminence that I never drink—except when I swallow too much of the Tiber. As to religion, I am afraid I have been forgetful sometimes. When I am very happy—or very unhappy—over a picture, I lose count of the days of the week and find myself on the church steps in my best clothes on Monday or Tuesday morning instead of Sunday. And oh, since I am telling your Eminence so much about myself, I must not forget a horrible crime that I have committed!" The Cardinal looked up anxiously. "I havecirculated the most shocking calumnies, again and again, for money." He laughed ruefully, and the prelate's face became a study of grief and reproach. "Yes, the Eminenza has a right to look horrified. I had no excuse except hunger—and ignorance. I have painted cardinals, at least twenty of them, from a crippled lay figure with one leg, dressed in an old tablecloth, Heaven forgive me—the foreigners who bought them had never beheld a cardinal, except perhaps in the street, and I never had the honor of speaking to one till this morning. But I perceive my errors. I repent, I will sin no more."
The prelate was laughing too now, and Rinaldo went on more earnestly. "As for the Sunday Mass, Giannella will not let me forget that when we are married. She goes every day. Oh, if the Eminenza could only see her. She is so good, so beautiful—like Raffællo's youngest Madonna, the 'Gran Duca.'"
"Then the contemplation of her must correct your faults, my son," the Cardinal said. "Bad art is a sin for which even the Grand Penitentiary has no absolution. Ah, what is it?"
The chaplain had entered and stood waiting to speak. He glanced at Rinaldo disapprovingly. The unknown young man had been granted an audience of unprecedented length, and it was Don Ignazio's business to see that his revered superior should be spared fatigue, and also that respectable visitors should not be kept waiting too long before being admitted.
"Eminenza," he said, "the avvocato De Sanctis has been here for some time. I thought you couldperhaps see him now? But I fear you are tired with so much talking already. I could ask him to call again."
Rinaldo had risen on the chaplain's entrance. "Your Eminence has been too kind," he protested. "I am ashamed of having trespassed so far on your goodness. I remove the inconvenience of my presence, with most humble thanks for all the Eminenza's condescension and kindness."
As he knelt to kiss the amethyst ring the Cardinal bent over to say in a low tone: "I will see what can be done, and will send for you in a day or two. Meanwhile, my son, we will observe silence on all this matter, and you must ask your fidanzata to do the same. I have good reasons."
"The Eminenza shall be obeyed," Rinaldo replied. As he was passing through the outer room, he encountered De Sanctis, who stopped to shake hands with him, saying, "I have been having a little conversation with the Signorina Brockmann and that old woman. Go to them, Signor Goffi, I am sure they want you. Incidentally I may say that you will find them prepared to answer all the questions with which you peppered me the other day. Diascoci, I think it is lucky for Bianchi that he is ill in bed, where you cannot get at him when you are satisfied as to the cause of his alarming dementia. Arrivederci. Yes, Don Ignazio, here I come." This to the chaplain, who was beckoning to him from a farther doorway.