第 52 页

word. The young woman first opened her arms and wrung her hands whilst

giving vent to a hollow moan, as if to relieve and exhale her grief; and

then, leaning forward, she watched for some sign of life on that pale

face whose eyes were closed. Dario was certainly breathing, but his

respiration was slow and very faint, and some time went by before a touch

of colour returned to his cheeks. At last, however, he opened his eyes,

and then she at once took hold of his hand and pressed it, instilling

into the pressure all the anguish of her heart. Great was her happiness

on feeling that he feebly returned the clasp.

"Tell me," she said, "you can see me and hear me, can't you? What has

happened, good God?"

He did not at first answer, being worried by the presence of Pierre. On

recognising the young priest, however, he seemed content that he should

be there, and then glanced apprehensively round the room to see if there

were anybody else. And at last he murmured: "No one saw me, no one

knows?"

"No, no; be easy. We carried you up with Victorine without meeting a

soul. Aunt has just gone out, uncle is shut up in his rooms."

At this Dario seemed relieved, and he even smiled. "I don't want anybody

to know, it is so stupid," he murmured.

"But in God's name what has happened?" she again asked him.

"Ah! I don't know, I don't know," was his response, as he lowered his

eyelids with a weary air as if to escape the question. But he must have

realised that it was best for him to confess some portion of the truth at

once, for he resumed: "A man was hidden in the shadow of the porch--he

must have been waiting for me. And so, when I came in, he dug his knife

into my shoulder, there."

Forthwith she again leant over him, quivering, and gazing into the depths

of his eyes: "But who was the man, who was he?" she asked. Then, as he,

in a yet more weary way, began to stammer that he didn't know, that the

man had fled into the darkness before he could recognise him, she raised

a terrible cry: "It was Prada! it was Prada, confess it, I know it

already!" And, quite delirious, she went on: "I tell you that I know it!

Ah! I would not be his, and he is determined that we shall never belong

to one another. Rather than have that he will kill you on the day when I

am free to be your wife! Oh! I know him well; I shall never, never be

happy. Yes, I know it well, it was Prada, Prada!"

But sudden energy upbuoyed the wounded man, and he loyally protested:

"No, no, it was not Prada, nor was it any one working for him. That I

swear to you. I did not recognise the man, but it wasn't Prada--no, no!"

There was such a ring of truth in Dario's words that Benedetta must have

been convinced by them. But terror once more overpowered her, for the

hand she held was suddenly growing soft, moist, and powerless. Exhausted

by his effort, Dario had fallen back, again fainting, his face quite

white and his eyes closed. And it seemed to her that he was dying.

Distracted by her anguish, she felt him with trembling, groping hands:

"Look, look, Monsieur l'Abbe!" she exclaimed. "But he is dying, he is

dying; he is already quite cold. Ah! God of heaven, he is dying!"

Pierre, terribly upset by her cries, sought to reassure her, saying: "He

spoke too much; he has lost consciousness, as he did before. But I assure

you that I can feel his heart beating. Here, put your hand here,

Contessina. For mercy's sake don't distress yourself like that; the

doctor will soon be here, and everything will be all right."

But she did not listen to him, and all at once he was lost in amazement,

for she flung herself upon the body of the man she adored, caught it in a

frantic embrace, bathed it with tears and covered it with kisses whilst

stammering words of fire: "Ah! if I were to lose you, if I were to lose

you! And to think that I repulsed you, that I would not accept happiness

when it was yet possible! Yes, that idea of mine, that vow I made to the

Madonna! Yet how could she be offended by our happiness? And then, and

then, if she has deceived me, if she takes you from me, ah! then I can

have but one regret--that I did not damn myself with you--yes, yes,

damnation rather than that we should never, never be each other's!"

Was this the woman who had shown herself so calm, so sensible, so patient

the better to ensure her happiness? Pierre was terrified, and no longer

recognised her. He had hitherto seen her so reserved, so modest, with a

childish charm that seemed to come from her very nature! But under the

threatening blow she feared, the terrible blood of the Boccaneras had

awoke within her with a long heredity of violence, pride, frantic and

exasperated longings. She wished for her share of life, her share of

love! And she moaned and she clamoured, as if death, in taking her lover

from her, were tearing away some of her own flesh.

"Calm yourself, I entreat you, madame," repeated the priest. "He is

alive, his heart beats. You are doing yourself great harm."

But she wished to die with her lover: "O my darling! if you must go, take

me, take me with you. I will lay myself on your heart, I will clasp you

so tightly with my arms that they shall be joined to yours, and then we

must needs be buried together. Yes, yes, we shall be dead, and we shall

be wedded all the same--wedded in death! I promised that I would belong

to none but you, and I will be yours in spite of everything, even in the

grave. O my darling, open your eyes, open your mouth, kiss me if you

don't want me to die as soon as you are dead!"

A blaze of wild passion, full of blood and fire, had passed through that

mournful chamber with old, sleepy walls. But tears were now overcoming

Benedetta, and big gasping sobs at last threw her, blinded and

strengthless, on the edge of the bed. And fortunately an end was put to

the terrible scene by the arrival of the doctor whom Victorine had

fetched.

Doctor Giordano was a little old man of over sixty, with white curly

hair, and fresh-looking, clean-shaven countenance. By long practice among

Churchmen he had acquired the paternal appearance and manner of an

amiable prelate. And he was said to be a very worthy man, tending the

poor for nothing, and displaying ecclesiastical reserve and discretion in

all delicate cases. For thirty years past the whole Boccanera family,

children, women, and even the most eminent Cardinal himself, had in all

cases of sickness been placed in the hands of this prudent practitioner.

Lighted by Victorine and helped by Pierre, he undressed Dario, who was

roused from his swoon by pain; and after examining the wound he declared

with a smile that it was not at all dangerous. The young Prince would at

the utmost have to spend three weeks in bed, and no complications were to

be feared. Then, like all the doctors of Rome, enamoured of the fine

thrusts and cuts which day by day they have to dress among chance

patients of the lower classes, he complacently lingered over the wound,

doubtless regarding it as a clever piece of work, for he ended by saying

to the Prince in an undertone: "That's what we call a warning. The man

didn't want to kill, the blow was dealt downwards so that the knife might

slip through the flesh without touching the bone. Ah! a man really needs

to be skilful to deal such a stab; it was very neatly done."

"Yes, yes," murmured Dario, "he spared me; had he chosen he could have

pierced me through."

Benedetta did not hear. Since the doctor had declared the case to be free

from danger, and had explained that the fainting fits were due to nervous

shock, she had fallen in a chair, quite prostrated. Gradually, however,

some gentle tears coursed from her eyes, bringing relief after her

frightful despair, and then, rising to her feet, she came and kissed

Dario with mute and passionate delight.

"I say, my dear doctor," resumed the Prince, "it's useless for people to

know of this. It's so ridiculous. Nobody has seen anything, it seems,

excepting Monsieur l'Abbe, whom I ask to keep the matter secret. And in

particular I don't want anybody to alarm the Cardinal or my aunt, or

indeed any of our friends."

Doctor Giordano indulged in one of his placid smiles. "_Bene, bene_,"

said he, "that's natural; don't worry yourself. We will say that you have

had a fall on the stairs and have dislocated your shoulder. And now that

the wound is dressed you must try to sleep, and don't get feverish. I

will come back to-morrow morning."

That evening of excitement was followed by some very tranquil days, and a

new life began for Pierre, who at first remained indoors, reading and

writing, with no other recreation than that of spending his afternoons in

Dario's room, where he was certain to find Benedetta. After a somewhat

intense fever lasting for eight and forty hours, cure took its usual

course, and the story of the dislocated shoulder was so generally

believed, that the Cardinal insisted on Donna Serafina departing from her

habits of strict economy, to have a second lantern lighted on the landing

in order that no such accident might occur again. And then the monotonous

peacefulness was only disturbed by a final incident, a threat of trouble,

as it were, with which Pierre found himself mixed up one evening when he

was lingering beside the convalescent patient.

Benedetta had absented herself for a few minutes, and as Victorine, who

had brought up some broth, was leaning towards the Prince to take the

empty cup from him, she said in a low voice: "There's a girl, Monsieur,

La Pierina, who comes here every day, crying and asking for news of you.

I can't get rid of her, she's always prowling about the place, so I

thought it best to tell you of it."

Unintentionally, Pierre heard her and understood everything. Dario, who

was looking at him, at once guessed his thoughts, and without answering

Victorine exclaimed: "Yes, Abbe, it was that brute Tito! How idiotic,

eh?" At the same time, although the young man protested that he had done

nothing whatever for the girl's brother to give him such a "warning," he

smiled in an embarrassed way, as if vexed and even somewhat ashamed of

being mixed up in an affair of the kind. And he was evidently relieved

when the priest promised that he would see the girl, should she come

back, and make her understand that she ought to remain at home.

"It was such a stupid affair!" the Prince repeated, with an exaggerated

show of anger. "Such things are not of our times."

But all at once he ceased speaking, for Benedetta entered the room. She

sat down again beside her dear patient, and the sweet, peaceful evening

then took its course in the old sleepy chamber, the old, lifeless palace,

whence never a sound arose.

When Pierre began to go out again he at first merely took a brief airing

in the district. The Via Giulia interested him, for he knew how splendid

it had been in the time of Julius II, who had dreamt of lining it with

sumptuous palaces. Horse and foot races then took place there during the

carnival, the Palazzo Farnese being the starting-point, and the Piazza of

St. Peter's the goal. Pierre had also lately read that a French

ambassador, D'Estree, Marquis de Coure, had resided at the Palazzo

Sacchetti, and in 1638 had given some magnificent entertainments in

honour of the birth of the Dauphin,* when on three successive days there

had been racing from the Ponte Sisto to San Giovanni dei Fiorentini

amidst an extraordinary display of sumptuosity: the street being strewn

with flowers, and rich hangings adorning every window. On the second

evening there had been fireworks on the Tiber, with a machine

representing the ship Argo carrying Jason and his companions to the

recovery of the Golden Fleece; and, on another occasion, the Farnese

fountain, the Mascherone, had flowed with wine. Nowadays, however, all

was changed. The street, bright with sunshine or steeped in shadow

according to the hour, was ever silent and deserted. The heavy, ancient

palatial houses, their old doors studded with plates and nails, their

windows barred with huge iron gratings, always seemed to be asleep, whole

storeys showing nothing but closed shutters as if to keep out the

daylight for evermore. Now and again, when a door was open, you espied

deep vaults, damp, cold courts, green with mildew, and encompassed by

colonnades like cloisters. Then, in the outbuildings of the mansions, the

low structures which had collected more particularly on the side of the

Tiber, various small silent shops had installed themselves. There was a

baker's, a tailor's, and a bookbinder's, some fruiterers' shops with a

few tomatoes and salad plants set out on boards, and some wine-shops

which claimed to sell the vintages of Frascati and Genzano, but whose

customers seemed to be dead. Midway along the street was a modern prison,

whose horrid yellow wall in no wise enlivened the scene, whilst,

overhead, a flight of telegraph wires stretched from the arcades of the

Farnese palace to the distant vista of trees beyond the river. With its

infrequent traffic the street, even in the daytime, was like some

sepulchral corridor where the past was crumbling into dust, and when

night fell its desolation quite appalled Pierre. You did not meet a soul,

you did not see a light in any window, and the glimmering gas lamps, few

and far between, seemed powerless to pierce the gloom. On either hand the

doors were barred and bolted, and not a sound, not a breath came from

within. Even when, after a long interval, you passed a lighted wine-shop,

behind whose panes of frosted glass a lamp gleamed dim and motionless,

not an exclamation, not a suspicion of a laugh ever reached your ear.

There was nothing alive save the two sentries placed outside the prison,