Part 11 (1/2)
Leonora would not go to Rome when the moment came to decide. She was so sorry, she said, but the weather had grown suddenly hotter and she really did not feel as though it were possible. She tried to make up for it to Marcantonio by being all that day a very model of devotion and tenderness. She affected a practical mood, and listened with attention while he explained to her the reasons for his going. She insisted on seeing herself that he had a small package of sandwiches, and a bottle of wine, and plenty of cigarettes to last him through the night; and when he finally drove away, she would have driven with him to Castellamare, but that she must have come back over the lonely road alone. To tell the truth, she was a little ashamed of herself; she had been so anxious to accompany him, and now she feared he might be disappointed.
Marcantonio saw it all, and was grateful and affectionate, though he begged her not to take so much trouble.
”En verite, mon ange,” he said more than once, ”I might be sailing for Peru, you give yourself so much thought.”
But she busied herself none the less, going about with a queer little air of resignation that sat strangely on her face. He took an affectionate leave of her.
”I will not receive any one, if any one calls,” she said, as he was going. He looked at her in some surprise.
”But why in the world?” he asked. ”Who should call particularly? Not even Monsieur Batis...o...b..,--he thinks you will go with me.”
Leonora felt the least faint blush mount to her cheeks, but it was dark in the hall of the villa, though it was only just dusk, and Marcantonio could not see.
”Oh, not him,” said Leonora. ”Only I want to be alone when you are not here.” For a moment again she wished she were going.
”Enfin, my dear,” he answered; ”do as you prefer; it is very amiable--very gentil--of you. Adieu, cherie!” and he got into the carriage and rolled away.
But her words lay in his memory and would not be forgotten. Why should she not want to see any one? Was there any one? Why had she been so very anxious to accompany him, begging so hard that he would not leave her?
After all, the only person she could be afraid of was Batis...o...b... He wondered for one moment whether there had ever been anything between them; he could remember to have seen them together more than once in the winter, at b.a.l.l.s. But then, they always met with such perfect frankness.
He had not watched them, to be sure, but he must have noticed anything out of the way,--bah! it was ridiculous. Not that he wanted Batis...o...b.. as an intimate, for the man was certainly called dangerous. He had known him for years, and had of course heard some of the stories about him,--but then, there are stories about every one, and Batis...o...b.. had evidently become very serious since he had got himself a reputation.
Besides, to see him a little, as they did in Sorrento, it could do no harm; it meant nothing, and he would think no more about it. He was not going to begin life with the ridiculous whims of a jealous husband, when he had married such an angel as Leonora--not he! Besides, Batis...o...b..--of all people! If it had been his sister Diana, it would have been different. Everybody knew that poor Batis...o...b.. had loved her ten years ago, when he was as poor as Job, and had nothing but a fair position in society. But Marcantonio had been away then on his travels, being just nineteen, and having been sent out into the world to learn French and spend a little money on his own account.
Strange that he should almost have forgotten it! Not that it mattered in the least. The man had loved his sister to distraction, but had soon recognised the impossibility of such a match, and had gone away to make his fortune. He had come to see Madame de Charleroi now and then of late; Marcantonio knew that, but it was perfectly natural that they should be the best of friends after so many years. How they had first met, or what had pa.s.sed between them, Marcantonio did not know, and never troubled himself to ask; perhaps he feared lest it should pain his sister to speak of it. But the whole story invested Batis...o...b.. with a sort of air of safety as regarded Leonora. He had certainly behaved well about Diana, and n.o.body denied it. Nevertheless, it was best that he should not see Diana too often, especially if he intended to live in Rome, now that he had made his fortune. But Leonora--he might call if he pleased, and amuse her in the dull summer days. Carantoni would not begin life by playing the jealous husband. It was certainly odd, though, that he should have thought so little about that old story. The fact was, he had never seen so much of Batis...o...b.. in his life as during the last week or ten days.
Meanwhile, he rolled along the road to Castellamare, and, after a great deal of s.h.i.+fting, found himself in the night train from Naples for Rome.
He ate his sandwiches and thought affectionately of his wife as he did so; and then he lay down and slept the sleep of the just until morning.
When he reached the Palazzo Carantoni, the first piece of news he received was that Madame de Charleroi was in the house, having arrived the previous day alone,--that is to say, with her courier and her maid.
The old servant volunteered the information that the vicomtesse was going to stay a week, or thereabouts, and had sent a note to the house of his Eminence, Cardinal Carantoni, the night before. Marcantonio gave instructions that she should be informed of his arrival, and that he would come and see her later in the morning, and he retired to dress and refresh himself.
He hated family councils, and he saw himself condemned to one, for there was no doubt of the cardinal's intention, since Madame de Charleroi had come, and had communicated with him. The cardinal was old, and felt the need of settling his affairs and of talking them over with his only near relations,--his nephew and his niece. For he was rich, and had money to leave.
Marcantonio and his sister greeted each other affectionately, for they were always glad to be together, and their meeting seemed to have been unexpected. His Eminence had sent for each separately, and they had arrived within twenty-four hours of each other,--Diana from Pegli and Marcantonio from Sorrento. Of course, they talked of trivial matters, for now that Diana had accepted the marriage there was nothing more to be said about it. At twelve o'clock they drove to the cardinal's house, through the hot, glaring streets of Rome, fringed with the red and white awnings of the shops. The carriage rolled under the dark porch of the palace, and the pair mounted the cool stairway and were soon ushered through a succession of dusky halls and swinging red baize doors to their uncle's study,--a curious, old-fas.h.i.+oned room in an inner angle of the building. The blinds were drawn, and the occasional chirp of the lazy little birds came up from the acacia trees in the courtyard.
The room was carpetless, with bright, smooth, red tiles; in the middle was a huge writing table, covered with papers and books; on one end of it stood a large black crucifix with a bronze Christ, and there was an enormous inkstand of gla.s.s and brown wood. Around the walls were mahogany bookcases, ornamented with light bra.s.s-work in the style of the first empire, and filled with books and pamphlets. The room was cool and dark and high, and as the brother and sister entered, their steps clicked sharply on the clean, hard tiles. His Eminence sat in an arm-chair at the writing table, clad in a loose, purple gown, and wearing a minute scarlet skull cap.
He looked, indeed, as though his life were nearly spent; for, though his dark eyes shone bright and penetrating from under the heavy brows, his cheeks were thin and sunken, of the hue of wax, and his white hands were transparent and discoloured between the knuckles. Marcantonio and Diana touched the great sapphire on his finger with their lips, and then the old man laid his hand on the head of each. They were his brother's children, and he loved them dearly, after his crabbed old fas.h.i.+on; for all the Carantoni are people of heart and kindness.
”My dear children,” he began, when they were seated by his side on straight-backed chairs that Marcantonio brought up to the table,--”my dear children, I am growing very old and infirm, and I wanted to see you here together before I leave you all.”
A kind smile played fitfully over the waxen features, like the memory of life that haunts a plaster mask. Diana laid her fingers gently on his arm, and Marcantonio broke out into solicitous protestations. His uncle was not yet sixty,--he had many years of life,--this was a pa.s.sing indisposition, a black humour, a melancholy. One should never expect to live less than seventy years at the very least, he said, and that would not be reached for a long time.
”Ah! no, dear uncle,” he concluded, ”you will surely live to see my sons growing up to be men, and to marry Diana's little girls!”
The cardinal shook his head. That was not the way of it, he said. He might die any day now, he said, in his meek voice; and it really sounded as though he might, so that Donna Diana felt her eyes growing dim and her heart big. She took one of the old man's thin hands in both of hers, and he with the other pushed back the rich, heavy hair and smoothed it tenderly. A marvellous picture in sooth they made,--the dying prelate in his purple and scarlet, and the great unspeakable freshness and life of the fair woman. Marcantonio pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes and sighed as he sat watching them.
Then his Eminence explained to the two what his chief plan was in calling them to him now. He had made a deed, he said, which he wished them both to understand. There were certain estates which he had inherited from his mother,--their grandmother,--as being the second son.
These he earnestly desired to see incorporated in the property of the Carantoni family. To that end he had made an act of gift, transferring the lands to Marcantonio at once, on the condition that the cardinal should continue to receive a certain income from them during his life.