The Patriot Part 27

Gilardoni, quivering with excitement, hearing the approaching steps of a servant, and seeing her about to open the door, threw his doc.u.ments upon one of the armchairs, saying hastily, in an undertone: "I will leave them here. Let no one see them. I am staying at the Sole, and will return to-morrow. Examine the papers, and think over them carefully!"

And before the servant arrived he had rushed out at the same door by which he had entered, had seized his heavy cape, and fled downstairs.

The Marchesa dismissed the footman, and stood listening for a few moments. Then she retraced her steps, took up the papers, and went to her room, locking her door behind her. Having put on her spectacles she took her stand near the window, and began to read. Her brow was clouded and her hands trembled.

The Professor was preparing to go to bed in his icy room at the Sole when two police-agents came with a summons for him to appear at once at the police-station.

He felt some secret misgivings, but did not lose his head, and went quietly away with the two men. At the station a little impudent Commissary asked him why he had come to Lodi, and upon being informed that he had come on private business shrugged his shoulders in contemptuous incredulity. What private business did Signor Gilardoni pretend to have in Lodi? With whom? The Professor mentioned the Marchesa. "There are no Maironis at Lodi," the Commissary exclaimed, and when his victim protested he speedily interrupted him. "_Basta!_ That will do! That will do!" The police knew for a certainty that Professor Gilardoni, although he was an Imperial and Royal pensioner, was not a loyal Austrian; that he had friends at Lugano, and that he had come to Lodi for political ends.

"You are better informed than I am," Gilardoni exclaimed, restraining his wrath with difficulty.

"Silence!" the Commissary commanded. "You must not think the Imperial and Royal government is afraid of you. You are free to go, but you must leave Lodi within two hours."

At this point Franco would have immediately perceived from whence the blow came, but the philosopher did not understand.

"I came to Lodi on most urgent business, which is not yet finished,"

said he. "On most important, private business. How can I leave in two hours?"

"By carriage. If you are still in Lodi at the end of two hours I shall have you arrested."

"My health does not permit me to travel at night in December," the victim urged.

"Very well, then I will have you arrested at once!"

The poor philosopher took up his hat in silence, and went out.

An hour later he started for Milan in a closed calash, his feet embedded in straw, a rug over his legs, a great m.u.f.fler round his neck, reflecting that this had been a most successful expedition, and swallowing momently to see if his throat were sore. He pa.s.sed a horrible night, indeed, but the Marchesa herself did not rest on a bed of roses.

FOOTNOTE:

[M] _Mascherponi_: A sort of common cheese made in Lodi. [_Translator's note._]

CHAPTER VIII

HOURS OF BITTERNESS

On the last day of the year, while Franco was writing out the very minute directions concerning the care of the flowers and the kitchen-garden, which he intended to leave for his wife's guidance, and the uncle sat reading for the tenth time his favourite book, the _History of the Diocese of Como_, Luisa went out for a walk with Maria.

The sun was shining brightly. There was no snow save on Bisgnago and Galbiga. Maria found a violet near the cemetery, and another down in the Calcinera. There it was really warm, and the air was pleasantly scented with laurel. Luisa sat down to think, with her back to the hill, and allowed Maria to amuse herself by climbing up the bank behind her, and sliding down again on the dry gra.s.s.

She had not seen the Professor since Christmas Eve, and she longed to speak with him; not to hear the story of the Maironi will over again, but to get him to tell her about his interview with Franco, when he had shown it to him: to ascertain what Franco's first impression had been and what the Professor's opinion was. As the will had been destroyed, all this could only be of psychological importance, but Luisa's curiosity was not the curiosity of the idle observer. Her husband's conduct had deeply wounded her. Thinking of it over and over again, as she had done ever since Christmas Eve, she had arrived at the conclusion that his silence towards her had been an outrage against justice and affection. It was a bitter sorrow to her to feel her esteem for him diminishing, especially bitter now, on the eve of his departure, and at a time when he really deserved praise. She would have liked, at least, to know that when Gilardoni had shown him the doc.u.ments there had been some inward struggle, that a more just sentiment had been aroused in his soul, if only for a moment. She rose, took Maria by the hand, and started towards Casarico.

She found the Professor in the garden with Pinella, and told Maria to run and play with the boy, but Maria, always eager to listen to the conversation of her elders, would not hear of going. Then Luisa broached the subject without mentioning any names. She wished to speak to the Professor about certain papers, about those old letters. The Professor, who was crimson, protested that he did not understand. Fortunately, Pinella called Maria, enticing her with a picture-book, and she ran to him, conquered by her curiosity concerning the book. Then Luisa relieved the Professor of his scruples, by informing him that Franco himself had told her everything, and she confessed to him that she had disapproved of her husband's conduct, that it had been, and still was a source of great sorrow to her----

"Why, why, why?" said the worthy Professor, interrupting her. Because Franco had not been willing to do anything. "I have done something! I have done something!" Gilardoni exclaimed, anxiously and excitedly. "But for the love of Heaven, don't tell your husband!" Luisa was amazed. What had the Professor done? And when, and how? And was not the will already destroyed?

Then Gilardoni, as red as a glowing coal, his eyes full of anxiety, his recital often interrupted by such exclamations as, "For mercy's sake, don't tell!--You will be silent, eh?" revealed all his secrets to her, from the preserving of the will to his journey to Lodi. Luisa listened to the very end, and then, clasping her face tightly between her hands, uttered a horrified "Ah!"

"Did I do wrong?" said the poor Professor, much alarmed. "Did I do wrong, Signora Luisina?"

"Very wrong! Terribly wrong! Forgive me, but it looked as if you were proposing some transaction, some bargain, and the Marchesa is sure to believe we are in league with you! Oh, it is awful!"

She wrung her clenched hands as if striving to press into shape, to remodel a more level professorial head for him. In utter amazement the poor Professor kept repeating: "Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, what an a.s.s I am!" without really comprehending the nature of his blunder. Luisa flung herself upon the parapet overhanging the lake, and stared into the water. Suddenly she started up, beating the back of her right hand upon the palm of her left, her face brightening. "Take me to your study,"

said she. "Can I leave Maria here?" The Professor nodded, and, trembling, accompanied her to the study. Luisa took a sheet of paper and wrote rapidly: "Luisa Maironi Rigey begs to inform the Marchesa Maironi Scremin that Professor Beniamino Gilardoni is a most faithful friend of both her husband and herself, but that they nevertheless heartily disapprove of his inopportune use of a doc.u.ment which should have been disposed of in a different manner. Therefore, no communication from the Marchesa is either expected or desired."

When she had finished she silently held out the letter to the Professor.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed, as soon as he had read it; "For the love of Heaven don't send that letter! What if your husband should find it out?

Think what a misfortune for me, for you yourself! And how can it possibly be kept from your husband?" Luisa did not answer, but gazed fixedly at him, not thinking of him, but of Franco; thinking that the Marchesa might look upon the letter as a snare, an attempt to intimidate her, she took it back and tore it in pieces, with a sigh. The Professor became radiant, and wished to kiss her hand, but she protested. She had not done it for his sake or for Franco's but for other reasons. The sacrifice of this outlet for her feelings exasperated her still more against Franco. "He is wrong! He is wrong!" she repeated, with bitterness in her heart, and neither she nor the Professor noticed that Maria was in the room. On seeing her mother leave the garden the little one no longer wished to remain with Pinella, so he had brought her to the door of the study, opening it noiselessly for her. The child, struck by her mother's expression, stopped and stared at her with a look of terror. She saw her tear the letter and heard her exclaim: "He is wrong!" and then she began to cry. Luisa hastened to her, folded her in her arms, and consoled her, and then they immediately took their departure. The Professor's parting words were: "For pity's sake, be silent!"

"Why be silent?" Maria quickly demanded. Her mother did not heed her; her thoughts were elsewhere. Three or four times Maria repeated: "Why be silent?" until at last Luisa said: "Hush! That will do." Then she was quiet for a time, but presently she began again, simply to tease her mother, and lifting her little, laughing face repeated: "Why be silent?"

This time she was well scolded, and once more became silent; but when they were pa.s.sing below the cemetery, only a few steps from home, she again burst forth, with the same mischievous laugh. Then Luisa, who had been absorbed in the effort to compose her face into an expression of indifference, simply gave her a shake, but it sufficed to silence her.

That day Maria was in very high spirits. At dinner, while jesting with her mother, she suddenly recalled the reprimands she had received when out walking, and looking covertly at Luisa, once more repeated her "Why be silent?" with the same timid and provoking little laugh. Her mother pretended not to hear, so she persevered. Then Luisa checked her with an "Enough!" so unusually stern that Maria's little mouth opened wider and wider, and the tears began to flow. Uncle Piero exclaimed: "Oh dear me!"

and Franco frowned, showing that he disapproved of his wife's action. As Maria kept on crying, he vented his displeasure upon her, took her in his arms, and carried her off, screaming like an eagle. "Better still!"

said Uncle Piero. "Fine disciplinarians, both of you!" "You let them alone," said Cia, for Luisa did not speak. "Parents must be obeyed."

"That's it! Let us have your wisdom also!" Uncle Piero retorted, and Cia relapsed into sullen silence.

Meanwhile Franco returned, having deposited Maria in one corner of the alcove-room, grumbling something about people who seemed bound to make children cry. And now Luisa also was vexed, and went to fetch Maria, whom she presently brought back in a lachrymose but mute state. The short meal ended badly, for Maria would not eat, and all the others were out of temper for one reason or another; all save Uncle Piero, who set about lecturing Maria, half seriously half playfully, until he succeeded in bringing a little sunshine back to her face. After dinner Franco went to look after some flower-pots, which he kept in the cellar below the little hanging garden, and took Maria with him. Seeing her once more in good spirits, he gently questioned her about what had happened. What did she mean by that "Why be silent?" "I don't know." "But why did mamma not wish you to say it?" "I don't know. I kept saying that, and mamma kept scolding me." "When?" "Out walking." "Where did you go?" "To the Signor Ladroni's." (It was Uncle Piero who had thus simplified the Professor's name.) "And did you begin saying that when you were at Signor Ladroni's house?" "No. Signor Ladroni said it to mamma." "What did he say?" "Why, papa, you don't understand anything! He said: 'For pity's sake be silent!'" Franco said no more. "Mamma tore a paper at Signor Ladroni's house," Maria added, believing her father would be all the better pleased the more she told him concerning that visit, but he ordered her to be quiet. On returning to the house Franco asked Luisa, with an expression that was far from amiable, why she had made the child cry.

Luisa scrutinised him closely. It seemed to her he suspected something, and she asked indignantly if he expected her to seek to justify herself for such petty matters. "Oh no!" Franco answered coldly, and went into the garden to see if the dry leaves at the base of the orange-trees and the straw around the trunks were in order, for the night promised to be very cold. As he worked over the plants he reflected that had they possessed intelligence and words they would have shown themselves more affectionate, more grateful than usual, on account of his imminent departure, while Luisa had the heart to be harsh with him. He did not remember that he also had been harsh. Luisa, on the other hand, at once regretted her answer, but she could not hold him back, throw her arms about his neck, and end it all with a kiss or two; that other matter weighed too heavily on her heart. Franco finished swathing his orange trees and came into the house for his cape, intending to go to church at Albogasio. Luisa, who was in the kitchen peeling some chestnuts, heard him pa.s.s through the corridor, stood hesitating a moment, struggling with herself, and then rushed out, catching up with him just as he was starting downstairs.

"Franco!" said she. Franco did not answer, but seemed to repulse her.

Then she seized his arm and dragged him into the neighbouring alcove room.

"What do you want?" said he, shaken, but still determined to appear vexed. Luisa, instead of answering, threw her arms about his neck, drew his unwilling head upon her breast, and said softly--

"We must not quarrel these last days."

He had expected words of excuse, and pushed his wife's arm aside, answering dryly--

"I have not quarrelled. Perhaps you will tell me," he added, "what Professor Gilardoni confided to you that was such a great secret that he felt obliged to entreat you to be silent."

Luisa looked at him, amazed and pained. "You doubted me?" said she. "You questioned the child? Did you indeed do that?"

"Well," he cried, "and what if I did? Anyway, I am well aware you always think the worst of me. Listen now. I don't want to know anything." She interrupted him. "But I will tell you! I will tell you!" His conscience was p.r.i.c.king him a little on account of his questioning of the child, and now seeing Luisa ready to speak, he would not listen to her, and forbade her to explain. But his heart was full to overflowing with bitterness, for which he must find an outlet. He complained that since Christmas Eve she had not been the same to him. Why protest? He had seen it clearly. Indeed, something else had long been clear to him. What? Oh, something very natural! Perfectly natural! Was he, after all, worthy of her love? Certainly not. He was only a poor useless creature, and nothing more. Was it not natural that upon knowing him better she should love him less? For surely she did love him less than at one time!

Luisa trembled, fearful that this might be true.

"No, Franco, no!" she cried, but her very dread of not saying the words with proper conviction was sufficient to paralyze her voice. He had expected a violent denial, and murmured terrified: "My G.o.d!" Then it was her turn to be terrified, and she pressed him despairingly in her arms, sobbing: "No, no, no!" By means of some magnetic current they understood each other's every thought, and remained long united in a close embrace, speaking in a mute, spasmodic effort of their whole being, complaining one of the other, reproaching, pa.s.sionately striving to draw together again, revelling in the sharp and bitter delight of being, for the moment, united by sheer force of will and of love, in spite of the secret disunion of their ideas, of their natures; and all this without a word, without a sound.

Franco once more started to go to church. He would not invite Luisa to accompany him, hoping she would do so of her own free will, but she did not, fearing he might not wish it.