CHAPTER XIX.
Prince Montevarchi was very much surprised when he was told thatAnastase Gouache wished to see him, and as he was very much occupiedwith the details of the suit his first impulse was to decline thevisit. Although he had no idea that matters had already gone so farbetween the Zouave and Faustina, he was not, however, so blind as theyoung girl had supposed him to be. He was naturally observant, likemost men who devote their lives to the pursuit of their own interests,and it had not escaped him that Faustina and Gouache were very often tobe seen talking together in the world. Had he possessed a sense ofhumour he might possibly have thought that it would be inexpressiblycomical if Gouache should take it into his head to fall in love withthe girl; but the Italians are not a humorous people, and the idea didnot suggest itself to the old gentleman. He consented to receiveGouache because he thought the opportunity would be a good one forreading the young man a lecture upon the humility of his station, andupon the arrogance he displayed in devoting himself thus openly to thedaughter of Casa Montevarchi.
"Good-day, Monsieur Gouache," he said solemnly, as Anastase entered."Pray be seated. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"
Anastase had put on a perfectly new uniform for the interview, and hismovements were more than usually alert and his manners a shade moreelaborate and formal than on ordinary occasions. He felt and behaved asyoung men of good birth do who are serving their year in the army, andwho, having put on their smartest tunic, hope that in a half light theymay be taken for officers.
"Will you allow me to explain my position in the first place?" heasked, seating himself and twisting his cap slowly in his hands.
"Your position? By all means, if you desire to do so. It is anexcellent rule in all discourses to put the definition before theargument. Nevertheless, if you would inform me of the nature of theaffair, it might help me to understand you better."
"It is very delicate--but I will try to be plain. What I am, I thinkyou know already. I am a painter and I have been successful. For thepresent, I am a Zouave, but my military service does not greatlyinterfere with my profession. We have a good deal of time upon ourhands. My pictures bring me a larger income than I can spend."
"I congratulate you," observed Montevarchi, opening his small eyes insome astonishment. "The pursuit of the fine arts is not generally verylucrative. For myself, I confess that I am satisfied with thosetreasures which my father has left me. I am very fond of pictures, itis true; but you will understand that, when a gallery is filled, it isfull. You comprehend, I am sure? Much as I might wish to own some ofthe works of the modern French school, the double disadvantage ofpossessing already so many canvases, and the still strongerconsideration of my limited fortune--yes, limited, I assure you---"
"Pardon me," interrupted Gouache, whose face reddened suddenly, "I hadno intention of proposing to sell you a picture. I am not in the habitof advertising myself nor of soliciting orders for my work."
"My dear sir!" exclaimed the prince, seeing that he was on a wrongtack, "have I suggested such a thing? If my words conveyed the idea,pray accept all my excuses. Since you had mentioned the subject of art,my thoughts naturally were directed to my gallery of pictures. I amdelighted to hear of your success, for you know how much interest weall feel in him who was the victim of such an unfortunate accident, duedoubtless to the carelessness of my men."
"Pray do not recall that! Your hospitality more than repaid me for thelittle I suffered. The matter concerning which I wish to speak to youis a very serious one, and I hope you will believe that I haveconsidered it well before taking a step which may at first surpriseyou. To be plain, I come to ask you to confer upon me the honour ofDonna Faustina Montevarchi's hand."
Montevarchi leaned back in his chair, speechless with amazement. Heseemed to gasp for breath as his long fingers pressed the greentable-cover before him. His small eyes were wide open, and histoothless jaw dropped. Gouache feared that he was going to be taken ill.
"You!" cried the old man in a cracked voice, when he had recoveredhimself enough to be able to speak.
"Yes," answered Anastase, who was beginning to feel very nervous as heobserved the first results of his proposal. He had never before quiterealised how utterly absurd the match would seem to Montevarchi. "Yes,"he repeated. "Is the idea so surprising? Is it inconceivable to youthat I should love your daughter? Can you not understand--"
"I understand that you are wholly mad!" exclaimed the prince, stillstaring at his visitor in blank astonishment.
"No, I am not mad. I love Donna Faustina--"
"You! You dare to love Faustina! You, a painter, a man with aprofession and with nothing but what you earn! You, a Zouave, a manwithout a name, without--"
"You are an old man, prince, but the fact of my having made you anhonourable proposition does not give you the right to insult me." Thewords were spoken in a sharp, determined voice, and brought Montevarchito his senses. He was a terrible coward and would rather go to aconsiderable expense than face an angry man.
"Insult you, my dear sir? I would not think of it!" he answered in avery different tone. "But my dear Monsieur Gouache, I fear that this isquite impossible! In the first place, my daughter's marriage is alreadyarranged. The negotiations have been proceeding for some time--she isto marry Frangipani--you must have heard it. And, moreover, with alldue respect for the position you have gained by your immensetalent--immense, my dear friend, I am the first to say it--theinstability of human affairs obliges me to seek for her a fortune,which depends upon the vulgar possession of wealth rather than uponthose divine gifts of genius with which you are so richly endowed."
The change from anger to flattery was so sudden that Gouache wasconfounded and could not find words in which to answer what was said tohim. Montevarchi's eyes had lost their expression of astonishment, anda bland smile played about the corners of his sour mouth, while herubbed his bony hands slowly together, nodding his head at every commaof his elaborate speech. Anastase saw, however, that there was not theslightest hope that his proposal would ever be entertained, and by hisown sensations he knew that he had always expected this result. He feltno disappointment, and it seemed to him that he was in the sameposition in which he had been before he had spoken. On the other handhe was outraged by the words that had fallen from Montevarchi's lips inthe first moments of anger and astonishment. A painter, a man with aprofession, without a name! Gouache was too human not to feel the stingof each truth as it was uttered. He would have defined himself in verymuch the same way without the least false pride, but to hear his ownestimate of himself, given by another person as the true one, was hardto bear. A painter, yes--he was proud of it. A man with a profession,yes--was it not far nobler to earn money by good work than to inheritwhat others had stolen in former times? A man without a name--was nothis own beginning to be famous, and was it not better to make the nameGouache glorious by his own efforts than to be called Orsini becauseone's ancestors had been fierce and lawless as bears, or Sciarrabecause one's progenitor had slapped the face of a pope? Doubtless itwas a finer thing to be great by one's own efforts in the pursuit of anoble art than to inherit a greatness originally founded upon asuperior rapacity, and a greater physical strength than hadcharacterised the ordinary men of the period. Nevertheless, Gouacheknew with shame that at that moment he wished that his name could bechanged to Frangipani, and the fabric of his independence, of which hehad so long been proud, was shaken to its foundations as he realisedthat in spite of all fame, all glory, all genius, he could never bewhat the miserly, cowardly, lying old man before him was by birth--aRoman prince. The conclusion was at once inexpressibly humiliating andsupremely ludicrous. He felt himself laughable in his own eyes, and wasconscious that a smile was on his face, which Montevarchi would notunderstand. The old gentleman was still talking.
"I cannot tell you," he was saying, "how much I regret my totalinability to comply with a request which evidently proceeds from thebest motives, I might almost say from the heart itself. Alas! my dearf
riend, we are not all masters of our actions. The cares of a householdlike mine require a foresight, an hourly attention, an unselfishdevotion which we can only hope to obtain by constant--"
He was going to say "by constant recourse to prayer," but he reflectedthat Gouache was probably not of a religious turn of mind, and hechanged the sentence.
"--by constant study of the subject. Situated as I am, a Roman in themidst of Romans, I am obliged to consider the traditions of my ownpeople in respect of all the great affairs of life. Believe me, Ientreat you, that, far from having any prejudice against yourself,I should rejoice sincerely could I take you by the hand and callyou my son. But how can I act? What can I do? Go to your own country,dear Monsieur Gouache, think no more of us, or of our daughters,marry a woman of your own nation, and you will not be disappointedin your dreams of matrimonial felicity!"
"In other words, you refuse altogether to listen to my proposal?" Bythis time Gouache was able to put the question calmly.
"Alas, yes!" replied the prince with an air of mock regret thatexasperated the young man beyond measure. "I cannot think of it, thoughyou are indeed a most sympathetic young man."
"In that case I will not trespass upon your time any longer," saidGouache, who was beginning to fear lest his coolness should forsake him.
As he descended the broad marble stairs his detestation of the oldhypocrite overcame him, and his wrath broke out.
"You shall pay me for this some day, you old scoundrel!" he said aloud,very savagely.
Montevarchi remained in his study after Gouache had gone. A sour smiledistorted his thin lips, and the expression became more and moreaccented until the old man broke into a laugh that rang drily againstthe vaulted ceiling. Some one knocked at the door, and his merrimentdisappeared instantly. Arnoldo Meschini entered the room. There wassomething unusual about his appearance which attracted the prince'sattention at once.
"Has anything happened?"
"Everything. The case is won. Your Excellency's son-in-law is PrinceSaracinesca."
The librarian's bright eyes gleamed with exultation and there was aslight flush in his cheeks that contrasted oddly with his yellow skin.A disagreeable smile made his intelligent face more ugly than usual. Hestood half-way between the door and his employer, his long arms hangingawkwardly by his sides, his head thrust forward, his knees a littlebent, assuming by habit a servile attitude of attention, but betrayingin his look that he felt himself his master's master.
Montevarchi started as he heard the news. Then he leaned eagerly acrossthe table, his fingers as usual slowly scratching the green cloth.
"Are you quite sure of it?" he asked in a trembling voice. "Have yougot the verdict?"
Meschini produced a tattered pocket-book, and drew from it a piece ofstamped paper, which he carefully unfolded and handed to the prince.
"There is an attested note of it. See for yourself."
Montevarchi hastily looked over the small document, and his faceflushed slowly till it was almost purple, while the paper quivered inhis hold. It was clear that everything had succeeded as he had hoped,and that his most sanguine expectations were fully realised. Histhoughts suddenly recurred to Gouache, and he laughed again at theyoung man's assurance.
"Was Saracinesca in the court?" he asked presently.
"No. There was no one connected with the case except the lawyers oneach side. It did not amount to a trial. The Signor Marchese's sideproduced the papers proving his identity, and the original deed wassubmitted. The prince's side stated that his Excellency was convincedof the justice of the claim and would make no opposition. Thereupon thecourt granted an order to the effect that the Signor Marchese was theheir provided for in the clause and was entitled to enjoy all theadvantages arising from the inheritance; but that, as there was noopposition made by the defendants, the subsequent transactions would beleft in the hands of the family, the court reserving the power toenforce the transfer in case any difficulty should arise hereafter. Ofcourse, it will take several months to make the division, as the SignorMarchese will only receive the direct inheritance of hisgreat-grandfather, while the Saracinesca retain all that has come tothem by their marriages during the last four generations."
"Of course. Who will be employed to make the division?"
"Half Rome, I fancy. It will be an endless business."
"But San Giacinto is prince. He will do homage for his titles nextEpiphany."
"Yes. He must present his ten pounds of wax and a silver bowl--cheap!"observed Meschini with a grin.
It may be explained here that the families of the Roman nobility wereall subject to a yearly tribute of merely nominal value, which theypresented to the Pope at the Feast of the Epiphany. The custom wasfeudal, the Pope having been the feudal lord of all the nobles until1870. The tribute generally consisted of a certain weight of pure wax,or of a piece of silver of a specified value, or sometimes of both. Asan instance of the survival of such customs in other countries, I maymention the case of one great Irish family which to this day receivesfrom another a yearly tribute, paid alternately in the shape of agolden rose and a golden spur.
"So we have won everything!" exclaimed Montevarchi after a pause,looking hard at the librarian, as though trying to read his thoughts."We have won everything, and the thanks are due to you, my good friend,to you, the faithful and devoted companion who has helped me toaccomplish this act of true justice. Ah, how can I ever express to youmy gratitude!"
"The means of expression were mentioned in our agreement," answeredMeschini with a servile inclination. "I agreed to do the work for yourExcellency at a certain fixed price, as your Excellency may remember.Beyond that I ask nothing. I am too humble an individual to enjoy thehonour of Prince Montevarchi's personal gratitude."
"Yes, of course, but that is mere money!" said the old gentlemansomewhat hastily, but contemptuously withal. "Gratitude proceeds fromthe heart, not from the purse. When I think of all the work you havedone, of the unselfish way in which you have devoted yourself to thisobject, I feel that money can never repay you. Money is sordid trash,Meschini, sordid trash! Let us not talk about it. Are we not friends?The most delicate sensibilities of my soul rejoice when I consider whatwe have accomplished together. There is not another man in Rome whom Iwould trust as I trust you, most faithful of men!"
"The Signor Principe is too kind," replied Meschini. "Nevertheless, Irepeat that I am quite unworthy of such gratitude for having merelyperformed my part in a business transaction, especially in one whereinmy own interests were so deeply concerned."
"My only regret is that my son-in-law can never know the share you havehad in his success. But that, alas, is quite impossible. How, indeed,would it be practicable to inform him! And my daughter, too! She wouldremember you in all her innocent prayers, even as I shall dohenceforth! No, Meschini, it is ordained that I, and I alone, should bethe means of expressing to you the heartfelt thanks of those whom youhave so highly benefited, but who unfortunately can never know the nameof their benefactor. Tell me now, did the men of the law look long atthe documents? Did they show any hesitation? Have you any reason tobelieve that their attention was roused, arrested by--by the writing?"
"No, indeed! I should be a poor workman if a parcel of lawyers coulddetect my handwriting!"
"It is a miracle!" exclaimed Montevarchi, devoutly. "I consider thatheaven has interposed directly to accomplish the ends of justice. Anangel guided your hand, my dear friend, to make you the instrument ofgood!"
"I am quite ready to believe it. The transaction has been asprovidential for me as for the Signor Marchese."
"Yes," answered the prince rather drily. "And now, my dear Meschini,will you leave me for a time? I have appointed this hour to see my lastremaining daughter concerning her marriage. She is the last of thosefair flowers! Ah me! How sad a thing it is to part with those we loveso well! But we have the consolation of knowing that it is for theirgood, that consolation, that satisfaction which only come to us when wehave faithfully done our duty
. Return to your library, therefore,Meschini, for the present. The consciousness of good well done is yoursalso to-day, and will soothe the hours of solitude and make your newlabours sweet. The reward of righteousness is in itself and of itself.Good-bye, my friend, good-bye! Thank you, thank you--"
"Would it be agreeable to your Excellency to let me have the moneynow?" asked the librarian. There was a firmness in the tone thatstartled Montevarchi.
"What money?" he inquired with a well-feigned surprise. "I do notunderstand."
"Twenty thousand scudi, the price of the work," replied Meschini withalarming bluntness.
"Twenty thousand scudi!" cried the prince. "I remember that there wassome mention of a sum--two thousand, I think I said. Even that isenormous, but I was carried away in the excitement of the moment. Weare all liable to such weakness--"
"You agreed to pay me twenty thousand scudi in cash on the day that theverdict was given in favour of your son-in-law."
"I never agreed to anything of the kind. My dear friend, success hasquite turned your head! I have not so much money at my disposal in thewhole world."
"You cannot afford to make a fool of me," cried Meschini, making a stepforward. His face was red with anger, and his long arms made oddgestures. "Will you pay me the money or not?"
"If you take this tone with me I will pay you nothing whatever. I shalleven cease to feel any sense of gratitude--"
"To hell with your gratitude!" exclaimed the other fiercely. "Eitheryou pay me the money now, or I go at once to the authorities anddenounce the whole treachery."
"You will only go to the galleys if you do."
"You will go with me."
"Not at all. Have you any proof that I have had anything to do with thematter? I tell you that you are quite mad. If you wanted to play thistrick on me you should have made me sign an agreement. Even then Iwould have argued that since you had forged the documents you had, ofcourse, forged the agreement also. But you have nothing, not so much asa scrap of paper to show against me. Be reasonable and I will bemagnanimous. I will give you the two thousand I spoke of in the heat ofanticipation--"
"You will give me the twenty thousand you solemnly promised me," saidMeschini, with concentrated anger.
Montevarchi rose slowly from his chair and rang the bell. He knew thatMeschini would not be so foolish as to expose himself, and wouldcontinue to hope that he might ultimately get what he asked.
"I cannot argue with a madman," he said calmly.
He was not in the least afraid of the librarian. The idea never enteredhis mind that the middle-aged, round-shouldered scholar could bedangerous. A single word from Gouache, a glance of the artist's eye hadcowed him less than an hour ago; but Meschini's fury left himindifferent. The latter saw that for the present there was nothing tobe done. To continue such a scene before a servant would be the worstkind of folly.
"We will talk the matter over at another time," he said sullenly, as heleft the study by a small door which opened upon a corridor incommunication with the library.
Montevarchi sent the servant who answered the bell with a messagebegging Donna Faustina to come to the study at once. Since it was to bea day of interviews he determined to state the case plainly to hisdaughter, and bid her make ready to comply with his will in case thematch with Frangipani turned out to be possible. He seemed no moredisturbed by Meschini's anger than if the affair had not concerned himin the least. He had, indeed, long foreseen what would occur, and evenat the moment when he had promised the bribe he was fully determinednever to pay it. The librarian had taken the bait greedily, and it washis own fault if the result did not suit him. He had no redress, asMontevarchi had told him; there was not so much as a note to serve as arecord of the bargain. Meschini had executed the forgery, and he wouldhave to ruin himself in order to bring any pressure to bear upon hisemployer. This the latter felt sure that he would not do, even ifdriven to extremities. Meschini's nature was avaricious and there wasno reason to suppose that he was tired of life, or ready to go to thegalleys for a bit of personal vengeance, when, by exercising a littlepatience, he might ultimately hope to get some advantage out of thecrime he had committed. Montevarchi meant to pay him what he considereda fair price for the work, and he did not see that Meschini had anymeans of compelling him to pay more. Now that the thing was done, hebegan to regret that he himself had not made some agreement with SanGiacinto, but a moment's reflection sufficed to banish the thought asunworthy of his superior astuteness. His avarice was on a large scaleand was merging into ambition. It might have been foreseen that, afterhaving married one of his two remaining daughters to a man who hadturned out to be Prince Saracinesca, his determination to matchFaustina with Frangipani would be even stronger than it had beenbefore. Hence his sudden wish to see Faustina and to prepare her mindfor what was about to take place. All at once it seemed as though hecould not act quickly enough to satisfy his desire of accomplishment.He felt as an old man may feel who, at the end of a busy life, seescountless things before him which he would still do, and hates thethought of dying before all are done. A feverish haste to complete thislast step in the aggrandisement of his family, overcame the old prince.He could not understand why he had submitted to wasting his time withGouache and Meschini instead of busying himself actively in theaccomplishment of his purpose. There was no reason for waiting anylonger. Frangipani's father had already half-agreed to the match, andwhat remained to be done involved only a question of financial details.
As he sat waiting for Faustina a great horror of death rose suddenlyand clearly before him. He was not a very old man and he would havefound it hard to account for the sensation. It is a notable fact, too,that he feared death rather because it might prevent him from carryingout his intentions, than because his conscience was burdened with therecollection of many misdeeds. His whole existence had been passed insuch an intricate labyrinth of duplicity towards others and towardshimself that he no longer distinguished between the true and theuntrue. Even in this last great fraud he had so consistently deceivedhis own sense of veracity that he almost felt himself to be theinstrument of justice he assumed to be. The case was a delicate one,too, for the most unprejudiced person could hardly have escaped feelingsympathy for San Giacinto, the victim of his ancestor's imprudence.Montevarchi found it very easy to believe that it was permissible toemploy any means in order to gain such an end, and although he mighthave regarded the actual work of the forgery in the light of a crime,venial indeed, though contrary to the law, his own share in thetransaction, as instigator of the deed itself, appeared to bedefensible by a whole multitude of reasons. San Giacinto, by all thetraditions of primogeniture dear to the heart of the Roman noble, wasthe head of the family of Saracinesca. But for a piece of folly, hardlyto be equalled in Montevarchi's experience, San Giacinto would havebeen in possession of the estates and titles without opposition orcontradiction since the day of his father's death. The mere fact thatthe Saracinesca had not defended the case proved that they admitted thejustice of their cousin's claims. Had old Leone foreseen thecontingency of a marriage in his old age, he would either never havesigned the deed at all, or else he would have introduced just such aconditional clause as had been forged by Meschini. When a greatinjustice has been committed, through folly or carelessness, when thosewho have been most benefited by it admit that injustice, when toredress it is merely to act in accordance with the spirit of the laws,is it a crime then to bring about so much good by merely sacrificing ascruple of conscience, by employing some one to restore an inheritanceto its rightful possessor with a few clever strokes of the pen? Theanswer seemed so clear to Montevarchi that he did not even ask himselfthe question. Indeed it would have been superfluous to do so, for hehad so often satisfied all objections to doubtful courses by a similarsophistry that he knew beforehand what reply would present itself tohis self-inquiry. He did not even experience a sense of relief as heturned from the contemplation of what he had just done to the questionof Faustina's marriage, in which there was nothing th
at could tormenthis conscience. He was not even aware that he ought to recognise adifference between the two affairs. He was in great haste to settle thepreliminaries, and that was all. If he should die, he thought, theprincess would have her own way in everything, and would doubtless letFaustina throw herself away upon some such man as Gouache. The thoughtroused him from his reverie, and at the same time brought a sour smileto his face. Gouache, of all people! He looked up and saw that Faustinahad entered and was standing before him, as though expecting him tospeak. Her delicate, angelic features were pale, and she held her smallhands folded before her. She had discovered by some means that Gouachehad been with her father and she feared that something unpleasant hadhappened and that she was about to be called to account. The vision ofFrangipani, too, was present in her mind, and she anticipated a stormyinterview. But her mind was made up; she would have Anastase or shewould have nobody. The two exchanged a preliminary glance before eitherspoke.