The Italians Part 49

"Is your gun loaded?" she asks, anxiously.

"Yes, padrona."

"That is well." A vindictive smile lights up her features. "No one must leave the house to-night. You understand? The dogs will be loose--the guns loaded.--Where is Pipa? Say nothing to Pipa. Do you understand? Don't tell Pipa--"

"Understand? No, diavalo! I don't understand," bursts out Adamo. "If you want any one shot, tell me who it is, padrona, and I will do it."

"That would be murder, Adamo." The marchesa is standing very near him. Adamo sees the savage gleam that comes into her eyes. "If any one leaves the house to-night except Fra Pacifico, stop him, Adamo, stop him. You, or the dogs, or the gun--no matter. Stop him, I command you.

I have my reasons. If a life is lost I cannot help it--nor can you, Adamo, eh?"

She smiles grimly. Adamo smiles too, a stolid smile, and nods. He is greatly relieved. The padrona is not mad, nor will she die.

"You may sleep in peace, padrona." With the utmost respect Adamo raises her hand to his lips and kisses it. "Next time ask Adamo to do something more, and he will do it. Trust me, no one shall leave the house to-night alive."

The marchesa listens to Adamo breathlessly. "Go--go," she says; "we must not be seen together."

"The signora shall be obeyed," answers Adamo. He vanishes behind the trees.

"Now I can meet Guglielmi!" The marchesa rapidly crosses the sala to the door of her own room, which she leaves ajar.

CHAPTER IX.

HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE.

The room to which Angelo conducts Count n.o.bili is on the ground-floor, in the same wing as the chapel. It is reached by the same corridor, which traverses all that side of the house. Into this corridor many other doors open. Pipa had chosen it because it was the best room in the house. From the high ceiling, painted in gay frescoes, hangs a large chandelier; the bed is covered with red damask curtains. Such furniture as was available had been carried thither by Pipa and Adamo.

One large window, reaching to the ground, looks westward over the low wall.

The sun is setting. The mighty range of mountains are laced with gold; light, fleecy cloudlets float across the sky. Behind rise banks of deepest saffron. These shift and move at first in chaos; then they take the form as of a fiery city. There are domes and towers and pinnacles as of living flame, that burn and glisten. Another moment, and the sun has sunk to rest. The phantom city fades; the ruddy background melts into the gray mountain-side. Dim ghost-like streaks linger about the double summits of La Pagna. They vanish. Nothing then remains but ma.s.ses of leaden clouds soon to darken into night.

On entering the room, Count n.o.bili takes a long breath, gazes for a moment on the mountains that rise before him, then turns toward the door, awaiting the arrival of Guglielmi. His restless eye, his shifting color, betray his agitation. The ordeal is not yet over; he must hear what this man has to say.

Maestro Guglielmi enters with a quick, brisk step and easy, confident bearing; indeed, he is in the highest spirits. He had trembled lest n.o.bili should have insisted upon leaving Corellia immediately after the ceremony when it was still broad daylight. Several unforeseen circ.u.mstances had prevented this--Enrica's fainting-fit; the discussion that ensued upon it between n.o.bili and the old chamberlain--all this had created delay, and afforded him an appropriate opportunity of requesting a private interview. Besides, the cunning lawyer had noted that, during that discussion in the chapel with Cavaliere Trenta, n.o.bili had evinced indications of other pa.s.sions besides anger--indications of a certain tenderness in the midst of his vehement sense of the wrong done him by the marchesa.

But, what was of far more consequence to Guglielmi was, that all this had the effect of stopping n.o.bili's immediate departure. That Guglielmi had prevailed upon n.o.bili to enter the room prepared for him--that he had in so doing domiciled himself voluntarily under the same roof as his wife--was an immense point gained.

All this filled Maestro Guglielmi with the prescience of success. With n.o.bili in the house, what might not the chapter of accidents produce?

All this had occurred, too, without taking into account what the marchesa herself might have planned, when she had read the note of instructions he had written upon a page of his tablets. Guglielmi thought he knew his friend and client the Marchesa Guinigi but little, if her fertile brain had not already created some complication that would have the effect of preventing Count n.o.bili's departure that night. The instant--the immediate instant--now lay with himself. He was about to make the most of it.

When Guglielmi entered the room, Count n.o.bili received him with an expression of undisguised disgust. Summoned by n.o.bili in a peremptory tone to say why he had brought him hither, Guglielmi broke forth with extraordinary volubility. He had used, he declared, his influence with the marchesa throughout for his (Count n.o.bili's) advantage--solely for his advantage. One word from him, and the Marchesa Guinigi would have availed herself of her legal claims in the most vindictive manner--exposed family secrets--made the whole transaction of the marriage public--and so revenged herself upon him that Count n.o.bili would have no choice but to leave Lucca and Italy forever.

"All this I have prevented," Guglielmi insisted emphatically. "How could I serve you better?--Could a brother have guarded your honor more jealously? You will come to see and acknowledge the obligation in time--yes, Count n.o.bili--in time. Time brings all things to light.

Time will exhibit my integrity, my disinterested devotion to your interests in their true aspect. All little difficulties settled with my ill.u.s.trious client, the Marchesa Guinigi (a high-minded and most courageous lady of the heroic type), established in Lucca in the full enjoyment of your enormous wealth--with the lovely lady I have just seen by your side--the enlightened benefactor of the city--the patron of art--the consoler of distress--a leader of the young generation of n.o.bles--the political head of the new Italian party--bearing the grandest name (of course you will adopt that of Guinigi), adorning that name with the example of n.o.ble actions--a splendid career opens before you. Yes, Count n.o.bili--yes--a career worthy of the loftiest ambition!"

"All this I have been the happy means of procuring for you. Another advocate might have exasperated the marchesa's pa.s.sions for his own purposes; it would have been most easy. But I," continued Guglielmi, bringing his flaming eyes to bear upon Count n.o.bili, then raising them from him outward toward the darkening mountains as though he would call on the great Apennines to bear witness to his truth--"I have scorned such base considerations. With unexampled magnanimity I have brought about this marriage--all this I have done, actuated by the purest, the most single-hearted motives. In return, Count n.o.bili, I make one request--I entreat you to believe that I am your friend--"

(Before the lawyer had concluded his peroration, professional zeal had so far transported him that he had convinced himself all he said was true--was he not indeed pleading for his judgeship?)

Guglielmi extended his arms as if about to _embrace_ Count n.o.bili!

All this time n.o.bili had stood as far removed from him as possible.

n.o.bili had neither moved nor raised his head once. He had listened to Guglielmi, as the rocks listen to the splash of the seething waves beating against their side. As the lawyer proceeded, a deep flush gradually overspread his face--when he saw the lawyer's outstretched arms, he retreated to the utmost limits of the room. Guglielmi's arms fell to his side.

"Whatever may be my opinion of you, Signore Avvocato," spoke the count at length, contemplating Guglielmi fixedly, and speaking slowly, as if exercising a strong control over himself--"whether I accept your friendship, or whether I believe any one word you say, is immaterial.

It cannot affect in any way what is past. The declaration I made before the altar is the declaration to which I adhere--I am not bound to state my reasons. To me they are overwhelming. I must therefore decline all discussion with you. It is for you to make such arrangements with your client as will insure me a separation. That done, our paths lie far apart."

Who would have recognized the gracious, facile Count n.o.bili in these hard words? The haughty tone in which they were uttered added to their sting.

We are at best the creatures of circ.u.mstances--circ.u.mstances had entirely altered him. At that moment, n.o.bili was at war with all the world. He hated himself--he hated and he mistrusted every one.

Guglielmi was not certainly adapted to restore faith in mankind.

Legal habits had taught Maestro Guglielmi to shape his countenance into a mask, fashioned to whatever expression he might desire to a.s.sume. Never had the trick been so difficult! The intense rage that possessed him was uncontrollable. For the first moment he stood stolidly mute. Then he struck the heel of his boot loudly upon the stuccoed floor--would he could crush Count n.o.bili thus!--crush him and trample upon him--n.o.bili--the only obstacle to the high honors awaiting him! The next instant Guglielmi was reproaching himself for his want of control--the next instant he was conscious how needful it was to dissemble. Was he--Guglielmi--who had flashed his sword in a thousand battles, to be worsted by a stubborn boy? Outwitted by a capricious lover? Never!

"Excuse me, Count n.o.bili," he said, overmastering himself by a violent effort--"it is a bitter pang to me, your devoted friend, to be asked to become a party to an act fatal to your prospects. If you adhere to your resolution, you can never return to Lucca--never inhabit the palace your wealth has so superbly decorated. Public opinion would not permit it. You, a stranger in the city, are held to have ill-used and abandoned the niece of the Marchesa Guinigi." n.o.bili looked up; he was about to reply. "Pardon me, count, I neither affirm nor deny this accusation," continued Guglielmi, observing his movement; "I am giving no opinion on the merits of the case. You have now espoused the lady.

If for a second time you abandon her, you will incur the increased indignation of the public. Reconsider, I implore you, this last resolve."

The lawyer's metallic voice grew positively pathetic.

"I will not reconsider it!" cried Count n.o.bili, indignantly. "I deny your right to advise me. You have brought me into this room for no purpose that I can comprehend. What have I in common with the advocate of my enemy? I desire to leave Corellia. You are detaining me. Here is the deed of separation "--n.o.bili drew from his breast-pocket the parchment he had perused so attentively in the chapel--"it only needs the lady's signature. Mine is already affixed. Let me tell you, and through you the Marchesa Guinigi, without that deed--and my own free will," he added in a lower tone, "neither you nor she would have forced me here to this marriage; I came because I considered some reparation was due to a young lady whose name has been cruelly outraged. Else I would have died first! If the lady I have made my wife desires, to make any amends to me for the insults that have been heaped upon me through her, let her set me free from an odious thralldom. I will not so much as look upon one who has permitted herself to be made the tool of others to deceive me. She has been treacherous to me in business--she has been treacherous to me in love--no, I will never look upon her again! Live with her?--by G.o.d!

never!"

The pent-up wrath within him, the maddening sense of wrong, blaze out.

Count n.o.bili is now striding up and down the room insensible to any thing for the moment but the consciousness of his own outraged feelings.

As Count n.o.bili waxed furious, Maestro Guglielmi grew calm. His busy brain was concocting all sorts of expedients. He leaned his chin upon his hands. His false smile gave place to a sardonic grin, as he watched n.o.bili--marked his well-set, muscular figure, his easy movements, the graceful curve of his head and neck, his delicate, regular features, his sunny complexion. But n.o.bili's face without a smile was shorn of its chief charm: that smile, so bright in itself, brought brightness to others.

"A fine, generous fellow, a proper husband for any lady in Italy, whoever she may be," was Guglielmi's reflection, as he watched him.

"The young countess has taste. He is not such a fool either, but desperately provoking--like all boys with large fortunes, desperately provoking--and dogged as a mule. But for all that he is a fine, generous-hearted fellow. I like him--I like him for refusing to be forced against his will. I would not live with an angel on such terms." At this point Guglielmi's eyes exhibited a succession of fireworks; his long teeth gleamed, and he smiled a stealthy smile.

"But he must be tamed, this youth--he must be tamed. Let me see, I must take him on another tack--on the flank this time, and hit him hard!"

n.o.bili has now ceased striding up and down the room. He stands facing the window. His ear has caught the barking of several dogs. A minute after, one rushes past the window--raised only by a few stone steps from the ground--formidable beast with long white hair, tail on end, ears erect, open-mouthed, fiery-eyed--this is Argo--Argo let loose, famished--maddened by Adamo's devices--Argo rushing at full speed and tearing up a shower of gravel with his huge paws. Barking horribly, he disappears into the shrubs. Argo's bark is taken up by the other dogs from all round the house in various keys. Juno the lurcher gives a short low yelp; the rat-terrier Tuzzi, a shrill, grating whine like a rusty saw; the bull-terrier, a deep growl. In the solemn silence of the untrodden Apennines that rise around, the loud voices of the dogs echo from cliff to cliff boom down into the abyss, and rattle there like thunder. The night-birds catch up the sound and screech; the frightened bats circle round wildly.

At this moment heavy footsteps creak upon the gravel under the shadow of the wall. A low whistle pa.s.ses through the air, and the dogs disappear.

"A savage pack, like their mistress," was Count n.o.bili's thought as his eyes tried to pierce into the growing darkness.

Night is coming on. Heavy vapors creep up from the earth and obscure the air. Darker and denser clouds cover the heavens. Black shadows gather within the room. The bed looms out from the lighter walls like a funeral catafalque.

A few pale gleams of light still linger on the horizon. These fall upon n.o.bili's figure as he stands framed in the window. As the waning light strikes upon his eyes, a presentiment of danger comes over him.

These dogs, these footsteps--what do they mean?

Again a wild desire seizes him to be riding full speed on the mountain-road to Lucca, to feel the fresh night air upon his heated brow; the elastic spring of his good horse under him, each stride bearing him farther from his enemies. He is about to leap out and fly, when the warning hand of the lawyer is laid upon his arm.

n.o.bili shakes him off, but Guglielmi permits himself no indication of offense. Dejection and grief are depicted on his countenance. He shakes his head despondingly; his manner is dangerously fawning. He, too, has heard the dogs, the footsteps, and the whistle. He has drawn his own conclusions.

"I perceive, Count n.o.bili," he says, "you are impatient."

This was in response to a muttered curse from n.o.bili.