"Good night," she said, with downcast eyes, for she felt that she could not stay to look at him.
"Good night, love," he whispered.
He let her go, and she slipped from him, leaving him still standing in his place. The door closed behind her, and he was alone, very quiet and pale, thinking of what he had done, and not rejoicing, for he knew the depth of its meaning.
He was glad it was over, for if it had been to do again, he could not have done it. His lips were parched, his throat was dry, his hands were burning; he felt as though his head were shaking on his shoulders, palsied by a blow. But such as the deed was, it had been well done, to the end. The devil, if he cared for his own, would be pleased. He had even kissed her. He knew what Judas had been, now, and what he had felt.
He did not know how long he stood there. It might have been a quarter of an hour or more; but though he watched the clock's face, his eyes saw no movement of the hands upon the dial. It seemed to him that the room was dark.
Then the door opened again, and he started and looked round, fearing lest Veronica might have come back—or her ghost, for he felt as though he had killed her with his hands. But it was Matilde Macomer. She glanced round the room and saw that Veronica was gone.
"Well?" she asked, coming swiftly forward to where Bosio was standing, pale as death under her rouge.
He faced her stupidly, with heavy eyes, like a man drunk.
"It is all over" he said slowly.
She started forward, not understanding him.
"Over? Broken off?" she cried, in horror.
"Oh no!" he answered with a choking laugh, bad to hear. "It is done. It is agreed. She accepts me."
Matilde drew breath, and pressed her hand to her left side for one moment—she, who was so strong.
"You almost killed me!" she said, so low that Bosio hardly caught the words.
Slowly she straightened herself, and the colour came back to her face, blending with the tinge of the paint. He did not move, and she came and stood near him, leaning her elbows upon the mantelpiece and turning to him.
"You have saved me," she said. "I thank you."
Bad natures can be simple, if they are great enough, and Matilde spoke simply, as she looked at him. She had been almost terrible to look at a few moments earlier, with the rouge visible on her ghastly cheeks. No one could have detected it now, and she was still splendid to see, as she stood beside him, just bending her face upon her clasped hands while her deep eyes melted in his.
He knew the difference between her and Veronica, and he straightened himself, till he looked rigid, and an unnatural smile just wreathed his lips, half hidden in his silky beard. He told himself that he had fallen the last fall, to the very depths; yet he knew that there was a depth below them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge in the thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do.
"I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon," she said gently. "I meant it, you know—I meant it all."
"I trust to Heaven you did!" answered Bosio.
"Yes, dear, I meant it," she said in a voice of gold and velvet. "I will try to mean it still. But—Bosio—look at me!"
He turned his eyes, but not his face.
"Yes?" His voice was not above his breath.
"Yes—but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?"
"Yes, we must." He spoke louder, with an effort.
She drew nearer to him, strong and soft.
"Yes? Well—but say goodbye—not as yesterday—not as though it were good bye—one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss—one, dear—one—"
And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and she had her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then he trembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant later he was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as he left her and went to the door without turning.
He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his face was livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but one thought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, and out upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in, till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stopping then, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, and hand and weapon.
Before the woman's kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, Bosio Macomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remote room.
Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of Almighty God. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he would not do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it, and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he cast himself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave.
It was still early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count Bosio Macomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morning newspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few ventured to guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that Count Bosio's servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about nine o'clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master's room locked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had found the count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his own revolver lying beside him.
That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It contained no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.
That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. In the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind, but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the morning.
To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might think, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For she understood, and she only, in all the household.
Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all, the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her consciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things she felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow had struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing but the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until the morning.
It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great candlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched his still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had been in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for she could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. After she had sat down, she did not move.
Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as grey as a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said nothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat. When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and she heard that he trod softly. In two hours he came back, knelt again, and again repeated Latin words. She knew that he was doing it for a show of sorrow, and she wished to kill him. Then, when he was softly gone again, she wondered how soon she herself was to die. There were two servants in the room, behind her, keeping watch. They were relieved by two others, changing through the night. She heard them come and go, but did not turn her head.
When the dawn forelightened, like the ghost of a buried day risen from the grave to see its past deeds, she was not yet dead. She had once read how the murderers of Vittoria Accoramboni had been torn with red-hot pincers and otherwise grievously tortured, and how knives had been thrust deep into their breasts just where the heart was not, but near it, and how they had died hard, for they had lived more than half an hour with the knives in them, and at the last had been quartered alive. She had not believed what she had read, but now she knew that it was true. She envied them the searing, the tearing, and the knives which had at last killed them, though they had died so hard.
The wan dawn turned the dead man's face from waxen yellow to stone grey. The servants saw it, whispered, and closed the inner shutters, and the yellow candle-light shone again in the room. Any light is better than daylight on a dead face.
Matilde sat still, bowed and covered. Fixed in the world of grief, the hours of sorrow passed her by. There was neither night nor day in the dead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily.
Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling, ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden. In that city, one may not lie in his home more than one day after he is dead. They set down what they bore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioning faces and heard them whispering. Then one of them, with some reverence and gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyes bade another lift the feet. But Matilde rose then and came between them and the dead. They thought that she would look at him once more, and they drew back, while she looked, for she bent over his face. But the shawl about her head fell about her, and they could not see that she kissed him. They waited.
The great woman put her hands about him, and bowed herself, and lifted him from the couch, and the men could not believe it when they saw her turn with him and lay him down in his coffin, alone, with no one to help her.
For she was very strong. She stood and looked down at him a long time, and once she stopped and moved one of his crossed hands, which touched the edge. And then she drew from her neck, from beneath the shawl, a piece of fine black lace, and laid it gently over and about his head.
"Cover it," she said to the men, and she stood waiting, lest they should touch him with their hands.
She had seen his face for the last time, and when they had covered him, they laid the coffin in another of lead which they had brought, and she stood quite still, watching the gleaming melted stuff that ran along the edges of the grey lead, like quicksilver, under the hot tool of copper. When that was done, with main strength they laid him in the third, which was covered with black velvet. And there were screws.
At last they went away, and Matilde set the tall candlesticks on each side of the velvet thing, and looked at it again. Then she, too, with still covered head, went towards the door. But between the coffin and the door, she stood still, swaying a little, till she fell to her full length backwards and straight, as a cypress tree falls when it is cut down. But she was not dead, for she was too strong to die then. The servants carried her away to her own room, calling others to help them, for she was heavy, and they had to take her down the stairs. It was afternoon then, and when she came to herself and opened her eyes, she bitterly cursed the day, for it would have been good to die. But she never went again to the room where she had watched.
She lay still a long time, alone in silence. Then, from a room beyond hers, came the wild crash of her husband's laughter. She sat up. Her face was grim and terrible, ghastly and stained with rouge, as the shawl fell back upon her shoulders. She sat up and listened, and her smooth lips twisted themselves angrily, one against the other, as a tiger's sometimes do, when there is blood in the air. She knew now that she was really alive, for she thought of Veronica.
Veronica had not known in the night. Her rooms were at the farther end of the apartment in a quiet part of the house, and when she had left Bosio she had gone to bed immediately and had dismissed her maid. Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproar and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death. Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one should disturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pass to go to the girl's room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, as she hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolish women of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, two together, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. But Elettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning when Veronica rang for her.
"A terrible thing has happened in the night," she said, when she had opened the windows.
Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim, dark fingers and looked again at Elettra.
"It is a very terrible thing," continued the woman, gravely. "It happened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let them disturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He was already dead. He had shot himself."
"Who?" asked Veronica, in instant horror. "Some one in the house? A servant?"
Elettra shook her head.
"No. I would not tell you—but you must know. It was Count Bosio."
Veronica turned pale and started up. "Bosio? Bosio dead?" she cried in a voice that was almost a scream.
The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should come to Veronica's room.
But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen any more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. But Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young girl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica's tears flowed on.
At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to reason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions for the dead man's sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the evening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes at the sound of Elettra's voice she had thought that she saw his eyes before her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened. She had not loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something which would have felt, by and by. And suddenly, he was gone. Why? It was so sudden. It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, into space beneath, without warning. There was too much gone, all at once. She could only ask why. And there was no answer to that.
Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn. It lay upon the dressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from her bodice. Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything more. It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented to dress.
Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the happiness to come.
"It was an accident," she said at last, speaking to herself, as though she had reached a conclusion. "He did not mean to do it."
Elettra shook her head, but said nothing. Accident, or no accident, it was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened them beyond their power to pay.
She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order. The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.
Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her betrothed husband. But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crape to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning things quickly.
The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness. Bosio Macomer was in his coffin. The servants were exhausted, and there was no one to direct. Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and a frightened chambermaid said that he was going mad. Elettra had great difficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica's room with a glass of wine.
The girl's first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, as the hours went by. She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers for the dead. When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt down and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply; and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while. She took the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last night when Bosio kissed her that once—that only once that ever was to be. And she took his photograph and looked at it, too. But she could not bear that yet—at least, not to look at it too closely.
Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house, and why no one came to her but her maid. It seemed to her that she was always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years. As she grew more calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without the companionship of Bosio. That was what she should miss, for she was but little nearer to love than that. It all looked so blank and gloomy that she cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness. But of this she was somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again.
She did not like to leave her room, either. It seemed to her that death was outside, walking up and down throughout the rest of the house, until poor Bosio should be taken away. And again she wondered about Matilde and Gregorio, and what they were doing. She tried to read, but not the novel Bosio had given her. She took up another book, and presently found herself saying prayers over it. The day was very long and very sad.
Before Elettra came back from her errands, a servant knocked at Veronica's door. He said that there was a priest who was asking for her, and begged her to receive him for a few moments.
"It cannot be for me," answered Veronica. "It must be a mistake. He wishes to see my aunt, or the count."
"He asked for the Princess of Acireale," said the man. "I could not be mistaken, Excellency."
"He does not know who I am, or he would not ask for me by that name.Does he look poor? It must be for charity."
"So, so, Excellency. He had an old cloak, but his face is that of an honest man."
"Give him ten francs," said Veronica, rising to get her pocket-book."And tell him that I am sorry that I cannot receive him."
The servant took the note, and disappeared. In three minutes he came back.
"He does not want money, Excellency," he said. "He says he is the Reverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency's church in Muro, and begs you earnestly to receive him."
Veronica rose again. She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had often spoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend. It was for Bosio's sake that he had come—that was clear. Veronica asked where her aunt was, and on hearing that Matilde had retired to her own room, she told the servant to bring Don Teodoro to the yellow drawing-room.
A moment later she followed. The tall priest was standing with bent head before the fireplace, on the very spot where so much had happened during the last two days. He held his three-cornered hat in one hand, and was stretching out the other to warm it at the low flame. Veronica was a little startled by his face and extraordinary features, but he looked at her clearly and steadily through his big silver spectacles, and he had a venerable air which she liked. She noticed that when she advanced towards him, he bowed like a man of the world, and not at all like a country priest.
"I thank you for receiving me, princess," he said, gravely. "I have heard the sad news. I was Bosio's friend for many years. I spent an hour with him only the day before yesterday, during which he told me much about himself and about you. If, before he died, he told you nothing of what he told me, as I think probable, it is necessary for you to know it all from me as soon as possible. Forgive me for speaking hurriedly and abruptly. The case is urgent, and dangerous for you. Shall we be interrupted here?"
"I think not," said Veronica, considerably surprised by his manner. "But of course—" she paused doubtingly.
"Have you a room of your own, where you could receive me?" asked the old man, without hesitation.
"Yes—that is—I should not like to—"
"I am an old priest, princess, and this is a time of confusion in the house. You can risk something. It is important. Besides, I am in your own service," he added, with a quiet smile. "I am the chaplain of your castle at Muro."
"Yes—that is true." Veronica looked at him with a little curiosity, for she had never been to Muro, and it was interesting to see one of her dependents of whom she had often heard. "Come," she said suddenly. "We shall meet no one, except my maid, perhaps—Elettra. Do you know her? Her husband was under-steward, and was killed."
"I know of her—I buried him," answered the priest.
She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room which served her as dressing-room and boudoir. After all, as he had said, he was a priest and an old man. She made him sit down beside her fire, in her own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, and she felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was going to say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of his errand.
"Princess—" he began, and paused, choosing his words.
"Do not call me that," she said. "Nobody does. Call me Donna Veronica."
"I am old fashioned," he answered. "You are my princess and feudal liege lady. Never mind. It would be better for you if you were in your own castle of Muro, with your own people about you, though it is a gloomy place, and the scenery is sad. You would be safe there."
"You speak as though we lived in the Middle Ages," said the young girl, with a faint smile.
"We live in the dark ages. You are not safe here. Do you know why my dear friend Bosio killed himself last night?"
"It was an accident! It must have been an accident!" Veronica's face was very sorrowful again.
"I wish it had been," said Don Teodoro. "They will say so, in charity, in order to give him Christian burial. But it was not an accident, princess. My friend told me all the truth, the day before yesterday. It is very terrible. He killed himself in order not to be bound to marry you."
The round, silver-rimmed spectacles turned slowly to her face.
"In order not to marry me! You must be mad, Don Teodoro! Or you do not know the truth—that is it! You do not know the truth. It was only last night that he asked me to marry him—that is—it had been my aunt who had asked me, and I gave him the answer."
"You consented?"
"Yes. I consented—"
"That is why he killed himself," said the priest, sadly. "I knew he would, if it came to that. It is a terrible story."
Veronica stared at him in silence, really believing that he was out of his mind, and beginning to feel very nervous in his presence. He shocked her unspeakably, too, by what he said about Bosio; for if the wound was not deep, perhaps, it was fresh, and his words were brine to it. He saw what she felt, and made haste to be plain.
"I am sorry that I am obliged to tell you this," he continued, after a short pause. "I cannot help it. The only thing I can do for my dead friend is to save you, if I can. I saw the account of his death in a newspaper an hour ago, and I came at once. Will you please not think that I am mad, until you have heard me? I was his friend, and I have eaten your bread these many years. I must speak."
"Tell me your story," said Veronica, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands.
He began at the beginning, and told her all, as Bosio had told him. He omitted nothing, for he had the astonishing memory which sometimes belongs to students, besides the desire to be perfectly accurate, and to exaggerate nothing. For he knew that she would find it hard to believe him.
She listened; and as he went on, describing the struggle in poor Bosio's heart between the desire to save the woman he loved and the horror of sacrificing Veronica as a means to that end, she leaned forward again, drawing nearer to him, and watching his face keenly. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted a little; for whether true or not, the story was terrible as he told it, and as he had said that it would be.
"I do not know what he said to you last night," he concluded. "I give you a dead man's words, as he spoke them to me; but I have no right to those he spoke to you. This is true, that I have told you, as I hope for forgiveness of my own sins. If you stay in this house, by the truth of God, I believe that your life is not safe."
"You believe it, I am sure," said Veronica. "But I cannot. The most I can believe is that poor Bosio was already mad when he told you this. It must be true. Even supposing that my uncle were the man you think, and had ruined himself in speculations and had taken money of mine without my knowledge, would it not be far more natural that he and my aunt should come to me and confess everything, and beg me to forgive and help them for the sake of their good name? Of course it would. You cannot deny that."
"It is what I told Bosio," answered Don Teodoro, shaking his head; "but he answered that they feared you, and that your death would be a safer way, because you might not be so kind. You might go to the cardinal and lay the case before him, and they would be lost."
"I might. I probably should." Veronica paused. "That is true," she continued, "but whatever I did, I could not allow the matter to come to a prosecution—for the sake of my own name, if not for theirs. But I do not believe it—I do not believe it—indeed, I do not believe it at all. Poor Bosio was not in his right mind. That is why he killed himself. He was mad, even when he talked with you the day before yesterday—it is the only possible explanation."
"Nevertheless, something must be done," said Don Teodoro. "Your safety must be thought of first, princess."
"I feel perfectly safe here," answered Veronica. "All this is madness. The countess is my father's sister. I admit that I have not always liked her, but she has always been kind. You really cannot expect me to believe that she and my uncle would plot against my life—especially now, in this terrible trouble and sorrow! I have listened to you, Don Teodoro, and I am sure that you wish me well, but I never can believe that you are right. Really—with all respect to you—I must say it. It is wildly absurd!"
And the longer she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed. The girl was naturally both sensible and brave, and the whole tale was monstrous in her eyes, though while he had been telling it she had fallen under the spell of its thrilling interest, forgetting that it was all about herself. She looked at the quiet old priest, with his extraordinary face and quiet manner, and it was far easier to believe that a man with such features might be mad than that her Aunt Matilde meant to kill her. He was silent for a few moments.
"There is a terrible logic in the absurdity," he said at last. "Your aunt constrains you to make a will in her favour, Bosio knew that his brother is ruined and that several large mortgages expire on the first of January. He knew that his brother has defrauded you in a way which is criminal. If they can get control of your money within three weeks they are saved. They persuaded Bosio and you to be betrothed. But Bosio kills himself. The main chance is gone. There remains the one with which the countess threatened him if he would not marry you—your immediate death. Against that, stands the possibility of penal servitude in the galleys for a man and woman of high rank and social position—only the possibility, to be sure, but a possibility, nevertheless. Remember that to those who know the whole extent and criminality of the count's fraud the case appears very much worse than it does to you, who now hear of it for the first time, in a general way, and who do not understand the nature of such transactions. I have been a confessor many years, princess. I know how few penitents can be made to believe that those they have injured will pardon them, if they frankly ask forgiveness. It is human nature. The best of us have doubted God's willingness to forgive—how much more do we doubt man's! It is all very logical, princess, very logical—far too logical, whether you will believe it or not."
"If I believed the beginning," said Veronica, "I might believe it all. But it is not proved that my uncle has defrauded me, and all the rest seems absurd, if that is not true."
"I beseech you at least to be careful!" answered the priest, earnestly.
"In what way? I shall go on living here, just the same, unless we all go into the country for the rest of the winter. Even if I thought myself in danger, I do not see what I could do."
"Eat what the others eat. Drink what the others drink. Take nothing especially prepared for you. Lock your door at night. If you will not leave the house, that is all you can do."
He shook his head thoughtfully.
It was true Italian advice—against poison and smothering. Veronica smiled, even in her sadness.
"I have no fear," she said. "Let us say no more about it. Can I do anything for the people at Muro?" she asked, by way of preparing to send him away.
"The people at Muro—the people at Muro," he repeated dreamily. "Oh yes—they are all poor—almost all. Money would help them. The best would be to come and see us yourself, princess. But if you are not careful, you will never come now," he added, turning the big spectacles slowly towards her and looking long into her face. "I have done what I could to warn you," he said, beginning to rise. "I will do anything I can to watch over you—but it will be little. Good bye. God preserve you."
As she rose she rang the bell beside her that her maid might come and show him the way out. She knew that by this time Elettra must have returned from her errands. The afternoon light was already failing.
She held out her hand, and he took it and kept it for a moment.
"God preserve you," he repeated earnestly.
He turned just as Elettra opened the door. The woman recognized him at once, came forward and kissed his hand, he having long been her parish priest. Then she led the way out. Don Teodoro turned at the door and bowed again, and Veronica, standing by the fire, nodded and smiled kindly to him. She was sorry for him. She had never seen him before, and he seemed to be devoted to her, and yet she was sure that his mind was feeble and unsettled. No sane person could believe the monstrous things he had told her.
Outside, he made a few steps and then stopped Elettra, laying his emaciated hand upon her shoulder. He looked behind him and saw that they were alone in the passage.
"Take care of your mistress, my daughter," he said. "Naples is not Muro, but it is no better. Let her eat what others eat, drink what others drink, and take no medicines except from you, and make her lock her door at night. This is not a good house."
The dark woman looked at him fixedly for several seconds, and then nodded twice.
"It is well that you have told me, Father Curate," she said in a low voice. "I understand."
That was all, and she turned to lead him out.
After that, Elettra, unknown to Veronica, slept in the dressing-room every night. After her mistress had gone to bed in the inner chamber, the woman used to lock the outer door softly and then draw a short, light sofa across it; on this she lay as best she might. The nights were cold, after the fire had gone out, and she covered herself with a cloak of Veronica's. In itself, it was no great hardship for a tough woman of the mountains, as she was. But she slept little, for she feared something. In the small hours she often thought she heard some one breathing on the other side of the door, close to the lock, and once she was quite sure that a single ray of light flashed through the keyhole, below the half-turned key. Yet this might have been her imagination. And as for the breathing, there was a large Maltese cat in the house that sometimes wandered about at night. It might be purring all alone outside, in the dark, and she might have taken the sound for that of human breathing. No people are more suspicious and imaginative than Italians, when they have been warned that there is danger; and this does not proceed from natural timidity, but from the enormous value they set upon life itself, as a good possession.
As for what Veronica ate and drank, Elettra was wise, too. She felt sure that if any attempt were made to poison her, Matilde would manage it quite alone; and she seriously expected that such an attempt would be made, after what Don Teodoro had told her. Veronica, like most Italians in the south, never took any regular breakfast, beyond a cup of coffee, or tea, or chocolate, with a bit of bread or a biscuit, as soon as she awoke. It was easy to be sure that such simple things had not been within Matilde's reach, and it was Elettra's duty to go to the pantry where coffee was made, and to bring the little tray to Veronica's room. At night, the young girl had a glass of water and a biscuit set beside her, when she went to sleep, but she rarely touched either. Elettra now brought the biscuits herself and kept them in a cupboard in the dressing-room, and she herself drew the water every night to fill the glass. So far as any food and drink which came to her room were concerned, Veronica was perfectly safe. But Elettra could not control what she ate in the dining-room. She would not communicate her fears to Veronica, either, for she knew her mistress well; and at the same time she did not know what or how much Don Teodoro had told her during his visit. Veronica was perfectly fearless, and was inclined to be impatient, at any time, when any one insisted upon her taking any precautions, for any reason whatsoever—even against catching cold. She was not rash, however, for she had not been brought up in a way to develop any such tendency. She was naturally courageous, and that was all. She was unconscious of the quality, for she had not hitherto been aware of ever being in any real danger.
As for Don Teodoro's warning, she put it down as the result of some mental shock which had weakened his intelligence. Possibly Bosio's sudden and terrible death had affected him in that way. At all events, she was enough of an Italian to know how often in Italy such extraordinary ideas of fictitious treachery find their way into the brains of timid people. On the face of it, the whole story seemed to her utterly absurd and foolish, from the tale of Macomer's ingenious frauds upon her property, to the supposition that she was in danger of being murdered for her fortune. Murder was always found out in the end, she thought, and of course such people as her aunt and uncle, even if they had any real reason for wishing their niece out of the way, would never really think of doing anything at once so wicked and so unwise. But the whole thing was absurd, she repeated to herself, and she found it easy to put it out of her thoughts.
Meanwhile, the first days after the catastrophe passed in that sad, unmarked succession of objectless hours by which time moves in a house where such a death has taken place. It is not the custom among the upper classes of Italians to attend the funerals of relations and friends. The servants are sent, in deep mourning, to kneel before the catafalque in church during the first requiem mass. Occasionally some of the men of a family are present at the short ceremony in the cemetery. But that is all. The family, as a rule, leaves the city at once.
Veronica wondered why her aunt and uncle did not propose to go to the country. Macomer had a pretty place in the hills near Caserta, and though it was winter the climate there was very pleasant. She did not know that the house was already dismantled, in anticipation of the probable foreclosure of a mortgage. Besides, in his desperate position, Gregorio would have feared to leave Naples for a day. As for making a journey to some other city, he was positively reduced to the point of having no ready money with which to go. Lamberto Squarci, the notary, positively refused to advance anything, and it was quite certain that no one else would. For Squarci, who was a wise villain in his way, and had aided and abetted Macomer's frauds in order to enrich himself, had only given his assistance so long as he was quite sure that he was acting as the paid agent of Veronica's guardian. The responsibility was then entirely theirs, and he merely obeyed their directions in preparing any necessary legal documents. But as soon as the guardianship had expired, he knew that in order to be of use in helping Macomer to rob his ward, he should be obliged to artificially construct the instruments needed, in such a way as to appear legal to the world. In such business, forgery could not be far off. The man had himself to think of as well as mere money, and at the point where the smallest illegality of action on his part would have begun, he stopped short, and refused to do anything whatever, leaving Macomer to grapple with his creditors as best he might, and to take care of himself if he could. It was now the middle of December, and the guardianship had expired, legally speaking, in the previous month of March, when Macomer's debts had already reached a very high figure. Macomer, after that, had presumed upon his authority and position to draw Veronica's income for his own purposes. That was easy, as the revenues accrued almost entirely from the great landed estates, of which the various stewards were in the habit of sending the rents, when collected, directly to Macomer. It was clear that unless Veronica herself protested, and until the authorities should discover that she was being cheated, these men would naturally continue to send the rents to the order of Gregorio Macomer.
Feeling that he was near the end of his chances, he had desperately attempted to improve his position by using as much of the year's income as he could extract from the stewards, in a final speculation. This had failed. He had not been able to pay the interest on his mortgages, and the ready money was all gone. A disastrous financial crisis had supervened, which had made itself felt throughout the country, and the banks which held the mortgages had given notice that they would foreclose some of them, and not renew the others. If Gregorio Macomer could have laid hands, no matter how, on any sum of money worth mentioning, he would have fled, under an assumed name, to the Argentine Republic, the usual refuge of Italians in difficulties. But he had exhausted all he could touch, had gambled, and had lost it. If he fled now, it must be as a penniless emigrant. As he had no taste for such adventures, at his age, there was but one chance for him, and that lay in somehow getting control of Veronica's fortune before the end of the month. As for getting any more of the income, in time to be of any use in staving off the tidal wave of ruin that rose against him, there was no chance of that. The farmers all over the country paid their quarter's rents on the first of January, or should do so, but there was often difficulty in collecting, and the money would not really get to Macomer's hands much before February. By that time all would be over; and it was not the idea of bankruptcy which frightened Gregorio; it was the certainty that a declaration of bankruptcy must lead to, and involve, a minute examination into his past transactions which had led to it.
Matilde knew all the truth, as has been shown. What she suffered in remaining in Naples, in going and coming through the familiar rooms, in spending her evenings in that room, of all others, in which she had last seen Bosio alive, no one knew. She went about silently, and her face grew daily paler and thinner. In her behaviour she was subdued and silent, though she treated Veronica with greater consideration than before. They had never spoken together of the possible reasons for Bosio's death, but it had been publicly stated that he had been insane, and Matilde, to all appearances, accepted the explanation as sufficient. It was made the more reasonable by the evident fact that Gregorio's mind was unsettled, and that he himself was in imminent danger of going mad. That, at least, was the impression produced upon the household.
As the days went by, the gloom deepened in the Palazzo Macomer, and when the three met at their meals, or sat together for a short time in the evening, the silence was rarely broken.
At first, it was congenial to Veronica; for if her grief was not passionate nor destined to be everlasting, her sorrow was profoundly sincere. It was the companionship of Bosio that she missed most keenly and constantly, through the long, empty hours.
No one who called was received during those first days. It chanced that Cardinal Campodonico had gone to Rome to attend one of the consistories for the creation of new cardinals, which are often held shortly before Christmas. Had he been in Naples, he would of course have been admitted. He wrote to Gregorio, and to Veronica, short, stiff, but sincere, letters of condolence. He was a man of a large heart, which was terribly tempered by a very narrow understanding; generous, rather than charitable; sincere, more than expansive; tenacious, not sanguine; keen beyond measure in ecclesiastical affairs, devoted to a cause, but unresponsive to the touch and contact of humanity; hot in strife, but cold in affection.
Society came to the door of the palace and deposited cards, with a pencilled abbreviation for a phrase of condolence, the very shortest shorthand of sympathy. Veronica looked through them. All the Della Spina people had come. She found also Taquisara's plain cards,—'Sigismondo Taquisara,'—without so much as a title, and in the corner were the usual two letters in pencil, strong and clear, but just the same as those on all the others. Somehow, she knew that she had looked through them all, in order to find his and Gianluca's. The letters on the latter's bit of pasteboard were in a feminine hand—probably his mother's. Veronica's lip curled a little scornfully, but then she looked suddenly grave—perhaps he had been too ill to come himself, and if so, she was sorry for him and would not laugh at him. As for Taquisara, he was so unlike other men, that she had unconsciously expected something different to be visible on his card.
The lonely girl spent as much of her time as possible in reading. But it was very gloomy. It rained, too, for days together, which made it worse. Bianca Corleone came to see her, and they sat a long time together, but neither referred to Gianluca, and very little was said about poor Bosio. It was impossible to talk freely, so soon after his death, and Veronica was not inclined to tell even her intimate friend of what had happened on that last night. It had something of a sacred character for her, and she said prayers nightly before the poor man's photograph, sometimes with tears.
Now and then Veronica felt so utterly desolate that she made Elettra come and sit in her dressing-room and sew, merely to feel that there was something human and alive near her. She enticed the Maltese cat to live in her rooms as much as possible, for its animal company. She did not talk with her maid, but it was less lonely to have her sitting there, by the window.
She supposed that before long the first black cloud of mourning would lighten a little over the house, and she had been taught at the convent to be patient under difficulties and troubles. The memory of that teaching was still near, and in her genuine sorrow, with the youthfully fervent religious thoughts thereby re-enlivened, she was ready to bear such burdens and make such sacrifices as might come into her way, with the assured belief that they were especially sent from heaven for the improvement of her soul, by the restraint and mortification of her very innocent worldly desires.
It could hardly have been otherwise. She had not yet loved Bosio, but her affection had been sincere and of long growth. On the last day of his life he had become her betrothed husband, and for one hour all her future living, as woman, wife, and mother, had been bound up with his, to have being only with him—to disappear in black darkness with his tragic death, as though he had taken all motherhood and wifehood and womanhood of hers to the grave forever. As for what Don Teodoro had said of his having loved Matilde, she believed that less than all the rest, if possible; and the fact that the priest had said it proved beyond all doubt to her that he was out of his mind. Beyond that, it had not prejudiced her against him, for there was a certain noble loftiness in her character which could largely forgive an unmeant wrong.
In her great loneliness, in that dismal household, the reality of faith, hope, and charity as the body, mind, and spirit of the truest life, took hold upon her thoughts, as the mere words and emblems of religion had not done in her first girlhood. She read for the first time the Imitation of Christ and some of the meditations of Saint Bernard. The true young soul, suddenly and tragically severed from the anticipation of womanly happiness, turned gladly to visions of saintly joy—simply and without affectation of form or show—purely and without earthly regret—humbly and without touch of taint from spiritual pride. She had no burden to cast from her conscience, and she sought neither confessor nor director for the guidance of her thinking or doing. Straight and undoubting, her thoughts went heavenwards, to lay before God's feet the sad, sweet offering of her own sorrow.
Without, in those dark winter days, storm drove storm over the ancient, evil city, rain followed rain, and gloom changed watches with darkness by day and night for one whole week, while the moon waned from the last quarter to the new. And within, Matilde Macomer went about the house, when she left her room at all, like a great, pale-faced, black shadow of something terrible, passing words. And in the library, Gregorio's stony features were bent all day over papers and documents and books of accounts, seeking refuge from sure ruin, while now and then his face was twisted into a curiously vacant grimace, and his maniac laugh cracked and reverberated through the lonely, vaulted chamber. He often sat there by himself until late into the night, for the end of the year was at hand, with all the destruction that a date can mean when a man is ruined.
It was a big, long room, with old bookcases ranged by the walls, not more than five feet high, and closed by doors of brass wire netting lined with dark green cotton. A polished table took up most of the length between the door which led to the hall at the one end, and the single high window at the other. There was no fireplace, and the count had the place warmed by means of a big brass brazier filled with wood coals. At night, he had two large lamps with green glass shades.
Matilde sometimes came in and sat with him during the evening. She looked at him, and wished he were dead. But she was drawn there by the power which brings together two persons menaced by a common danger, in the hope that something may suddenly change, and turn peril into safety. He sat at one end of the table with his papers, and she took the place opposite to him, the lamp being a little on one side, so that they could see each other. They were a gloomy couple, in their black clothes, under the green light, with harassed, mask-like faces.
One night, Matilde came in very late. She trod softly on the polished floor, wearing felt slippers.
"Elettra sleeps in her dressing-room," she said in a low voice.
Macomer looked up, and the twitching of his face began instantly, as though he were going to laugh. Matilde brought the palm of her hand down sharply upon the bare table, fixing her eyes upon him.
"Stop that!" she cried in a tone of command. "It is very well for the servants. You are learning to do it very well. It is of no use with me."
He looked at her steadily for a moment. Then he laughed, but naturally and low.
"I might have known that you would find me out," he said. "But it is becoming a habit. It may serve us in the end. How do you know that the woman sleeps in Veronica's dressing-room?"
"I was wandering about, just now," answered Matilde, looking away from him. "I saw the door of Elettra's room ajar. I pushed it open and looked in, and I saw that her bed was not disturbed. Then I stood outside the door of Veronica's dressing-room, and listened. Something moved once, and I was sure that I heard breathing."
Gregorio watched her gravely while she was speaking, but in the silence that followed, his small eyes wandered uneasily.
"The girl is lonely," he said at last. "She makes Elettra sleep in the room next to hers, because she is nervous."
Matilde seemed to be thinking over what she had said. Some time passed before she answered, and then it was by a vague question.
"Well?"
Again they looked at each other.
"That is certainly bad," said Macomer, thoughtfully. "What are we to do? Speak to her about it? You can say that you found Elettra's door open, at this hour."
"It would do no good," answered Matilde. "We could not prevent her from having her maid there, if she wishes it."
"After all," observed Macomer, absently, "it is only a woman."
"Only a woman?" Matilde's lip curled. "I am only a woman."
Macomer nodded slowly, as though realizing what that meant, but he said nothing in answer. With his hands under the table he slipped low down in his chair, his head bent forward upon his breast, in deep thought.
"Can you not suggest anything?" asked Matilde, at last, gazing at him somewhat scornfully. "After all, this is your fault. You have dragged me into this ruin with you."
"I know, I know," he repeated in a low voice. "But we cannot do it now—with that woman there."
"No. It is impossible now." Matilde's tones sank to a whisper.
She looked down at her strong hands that had grown thinner during the past days, but were strong still. Gregorio waited a few moments and then roused himself and bent over his papers again.
"You cannot see any way out of it, can you?" asked his wife at last. "Is there no possibility of keeping afloat until things go better?"
"No," answered Macomer, not looking up. "There is nothing to go better. You know it all. There is only that one way. Failing that, I must go mad. One can recover from madness, you know."
"Yes," said Matilde, thoughtfully. "But it is a very difficult thing to do well. They have expert doctors, who know the real thing from the imitation."
Gregorio looked up suddenly.
"She could not go mad, could she?" he asked, a quiver of cunning intelligence making his stony mask quiver. "Are there not things—is there not something—you know—something that produces that? What is all this talk, nowadays, about hypnotic suggestion?"
"Fairy tales!" exclaimed Matilde, incredulously. "The other is sure. This is no time for experiments. There are thirteen days left in this year. If we are to do it at all, we must do it quickly."
"I do not like the idea of the pillow," said Macomer, speaking very low again.
Matilde's shoulders moved uneasily, as though she were chilly, but her face did not change.
"It is of no use to talk of such things," she answered. "Besides," she added, "you are dull. Only remember that you have just thirteen days more, after to-day."
"Remember!" his voice told all his terror of the limit.
Then Matilde did not speak again. She rested her elbows on the table, and her chin upon her hands, staring at him as though she did not see him, evidently in deep thought. He bent over his papers, but was aware that her eyes were on him. He glanced up nervously.
"Please do not look at me in that way. You make me nervous," he said.
With a scornful half-laugh she rose from her seat.
"Good night," she said indifferently, and in her soft felt slippers she noiselessly went away.
She had not come in the expectation of help from her husband in anything that was to be done. But besides the bond of fear by which they were drawn together, there was the feeling that his presence, especially in that room, brought before her vividly the necessity for action. Under such pressure, an idea might come to her which would be worth having. It had come to-night, but it was of a nature which made it wiser not to tell Gregorio about it. Such things, being complicated and delicate, and difficult of execution, were best kept to herself, at least until her plans were matured and ready. But this time, she believed that she had at last what she wanted. The scheme flashed upon her all at once, complete and feasible, and perfectly safe, but she resolved to think it over for twenty-four hours before finally deciding to adopt it.
And while such things were being said and done in the lonely night, and deeply pondered through the long, silent days, Veronica came and went peacefully, with sad but not unhappy eyes, her thoughts fixed upon the new path by which her single sorrow was to lead her up to the eternity of all celestial joys.
In those days she determined to lead a holy life, in the memory of the dead betrothed, and perhaps in the thought that by the outpouring of much good around her, she might yet obtain mercy for the soul of one self-slain. She meant not to cut herself off from all mankind, devoting her maidenhood to heaven and her body to the servitude of slow suffering, whereby some say that the spirit may be saved most certainly—in the hard rule of daily dying, and daily rising again one day nearer to death. That was not what she meant to do; that depth of godly dreaming was too cold and still a depth for her. There must be motion and life in her means of grace, since she had the power to make others move and live. Marriage, wifehood, motherhood, should not be for her, she said; but there was all the rest. There were the many hundreds—the thousands, indeed, had she known it—of men and women and poor children, toiling against the impossible with hands that had long learned to labour in vain, save for the bare bread of life. To them all, in many quarters of the land, she would be a mother, to help them, to feed them, and to heal them; to work for them and their welfare, as they had worked and toiled for the greatness of her dim, great ancestors, repaying to humanity, in one lifetime, what humanity had been forced to give them through many generations.
She would lead a holy life, for she would pray continually, when there was nothing else that she could do. When she could not be thinking out some good thing for her people, she would meditate upon higher things for the good of her own soul. But first and foremost should be the doing, the helping, the giving of life to the far spent, and of hope to the helpless.
There in that room, where she dwelt continually in those days, she made no vow, she registered no resolution, she imposed no one self upon another self within her to thrust out evil and implant good. She had no need of that. It was all as simply natural as the growth of a flower, effortless, rising heavenward by its own instinct life.
In one thing only she made a determination of her will. She decided that with the new year she would at last take over her fortune and estates into her own management. Until she did that, she could not know what she had, nor where she should begin her good work. That was absolutely necessary, and of course, thought she, it presented no difficulty at all. Possibly her own indolence about it, and her distaste for going into the question of money and accounts, was a fault with which she should have reproached herself, because she might have begun to do good sooner, had she chosen. But she did not think of that. She would begin with the new year.
As though a good destiny had anticipated her desire, the first call for her help came suddenly, on the day after the last recorded conversation between Gregorio and Matilde.
It was still early in the morning when Elettra brought her a letter, bearing the postmark of the city, and addressed in one of those small, clear handwritings which seem naturally to belong to scholars and students. It was from Don Teodoro, and Veronica read it while she drank her tea and Elettra was making a fire in the next room.
The old priest did not refer to the strange story he had told her ten days earlier. But he recalled her question concerning the people at Muro and their condition. They were indeed desperately poor, he said, and the winter was a hard one in the mountains. There were many sick, and there was no hospital,—not so much as a room in which a dying beggar might lie out of the cold. It was a very pitiful tale, told carefully and accurately. And at the end the good man humbly begged that the most Excellent Princess would deign to allow his stipend to be paid in advance, in order that he might do something to help his poor.
Veronica read the letter twice, and judged it. Then she determined to do something at once, for she knew that the man had written the truth. She should have liked to send for him, and talk with him of what should be done; but she could not forget the things he had said about Bosio, and for that reason she did not wish to see him again—at least, not yet. His mind was unbalanced about that matter; but charity was a different thing.
His address in Naples was in the letter. She wrote a note in answer, begging him to tell her how much money he should need to hire a vacant house, since there was no time to build one, and to fit it decently with what he thought necessary, in order that it might serve as a refuge and hospital for the very poor. She sent Elettra with the letter.
It was raining again, and by good fortune Don Teodoro was at home, though it was still before noon. While the maid waited, he wrote his answer. His thanks were heartfelt on behalf of his parish, but shortly expressed. He said that in order to do what Veronica proposed so generously, at least two thousand francs would be necessary. He briefly explained why the charity would need what he looked upon as a large sum, and he begged pardon for being so frank.
Again Veronica read the letter carefully over, and she put it into the desk. Half an hour later she went to luncheon. The meal was as silent and gloomy as usual, and scarcely half a dozen words were said. Afterwards the three came back to the yellow drawing-room for their coffee. When the servant was gone, Veronica, stirring the sugar in her cup, turned to her uncle.
"Will you please give me three thousand francs, Uncle Gregorio?" she asked quietly. "I want it this afternoon, if you please."
Gregorio Macomer grew slowly white to the tips of his ears. Matilde sipped her coffee, and turned her back to the light.
"Three thousand francs!" repeated Macomer, slowly recovering a little self-control. "My dear child! What can you want of so much money?".
"Is it so very much?" asked Veronica, innocently surprised. "You have told me that I have more than eight hundred thousand a year. It is for charity. The people at Muro have no hospital. I shall be glad if you will give it to me before four o'clock; I wish to send it at once."
Macomer had barely a thousand francs in the house, and he knew that there was not a man of business in Naples who would have lent him half the little sum for which Veronica was asking.
"I shall certainly not give you money for any such absurd purpose," saidGregorio, with sudden, assumed sternness.
Veronica raised her eyes in quiet astonishment, offended, but not disconcerted.
"Really, Uncle Gregorio," she said, "as I am of age and mistress of whatever is mine, I think I have a right to my little charities. Besides, you know, it is not giving, since you are no longer my guardian in reality. It is merely a case of sending to the bank for the money, if you have not got it in the house. I should like it before four o'clock, if you please, Uncle Gregorio."
In his terror the man lost his temper.
"I shall certainly not let you have it," he answered, with cold irritation. "It is absurd!"
If Veronica had wanted the money to spend it on herself, she might have waited until he was cool again, in the evening, before insisting. But her blood rose, for she felt that it was for her poor people, starving, sick, frozen, shelterless, in distant Muro. She knew perfectly well what her rights were, and she asserted them then and there with a calm young dignity of purpose which terrified Gregorio more and more.
"This is very strange," she said. "I do not wish to say disagreeable things, Uncle Gregorio; we should both regret them. But you know that I am entitled to spend all my income as I please, and I must really beg you to get me this money at once. It is for a good purpose. The case is urgent. I am the proper judge of whether it is needed or not, and I have decided that I will give it. There is nothing more to be said."
"Except that I entirely refuse to listen to such words from my ward!" answered Gregorio, angrily.
"I appeal to you, Aunt Matilde," said Veronica, setting down her coffee cup upon the table and turning to the countess.
But Matilde knew well enough that her husband could not get the money.She shook her head gravely and said nothing.
By this time Veronica was thoroughly determined to have her way.
"Very well," she answered calmly. "I shall telegraph to the cardinal. I understand that he is in Rome."
Gregorio turned away, and he felt that his knees were shaking under him. He knew well enough what the result would be if the cardinal's suspicions were aroused. Matilde saw the danger and interfered.
"I think you are pushing such a small matter to the verge of a quarrel, Gregorio," she said sweetly. "Since Veronica insists, you must give her the money. After all, it is hers, as she says."
Macomer turned and stared at his wife in amazement.
"I am going out at once," she continued. "If you like, I will go to the bank and get the money for you. Yes, dear," she added, turning to Veronica, "I shall be back before four o'clock, and you shall have it in plenty of time. Did you say four thousand or five thousand?"
"Only three," answered the young girl, rapidly pacified. "Three thousand, if you please. Thank you very much, Aunt Matilde! A woman always understands a woman in questions of charity. One wishes to act at once. Thank you."
And in order to end an unpleasant situation, she nodded and left the room. Husband and wife waited a moment after the door was closed. Then Matilde, before Gregorio could speak, went and opened it suddenly and looked out, but there was no one there.
"She would not listen at the door!" exclaimed Gregorio, with some contempt for his wife's caution.
"She? No! But I distrust that woman she has."
"And how do you propose to get this money?" asked the count.
"Have I no diamonds?" inquired Matilde. "She would have ruined us. Order the carriage, and I will go to a jeweller at once."
"Yes," said Macomer. "You are very wise. I thought there was going to be trouble. It was clever of you to restore her confidence by offering her more. But—" he lowered his voice—"something must be done at once."
"Yes," answered Matilde, looking behind her. "It shall be done at once."
He went out half an hour later, and before four o'clock Veronica despatched Elettra to Don Teodoro with three thousand francs in bank notes. But the diamonds which Matilde had left at the jeweller's were worth far more than that, and she had got more than that for them.