第 76 页

society had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing a

connection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown as

accustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for

two months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and

faithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every

heart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory

which the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta's

marriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,

nothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum

was preserved and good order re-established.

But there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen

to enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for

the ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with

Prada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated

before one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the

bravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a

murmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,

all hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous

happiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after

his long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the

fine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,

bore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of

the Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her

casque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,

that smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly

fascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her

somewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless

eyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and

happiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,

a plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she

had remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her

choice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or

shoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the

sovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with

white. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There

was simply a necklace falling about her _corsage_, but a necklace fit for

royalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she had

inherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls of

fabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply as

she was gowned, to make her queen of all.

"Oh!" murmured Pierre in ecstasy, "how happy and how beautiful she is!"

But he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, for

beside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded him

of the Count's presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry of

returning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:

"The devil!" said he, "they have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall see

them married and bedded at once!" Then regretting this coarse jest which

had been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appear

indifferent: "She looks very nice this evening," he said; "she has the

finest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for her

to hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever."

He went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and giving

various little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinately

called the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into the

recess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and the

painful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight,

to show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the lovers

so openly and naively expressed. And he was glad of the respite which the

arrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. "Ah! here are

their Majesties!" he exclaimed, turning towards the window. "Look at the

scramble in the street!"

Although the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from the

footways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electric

lamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass the

carriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter's

daily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came like

any private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-camp

accompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaeton

with only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasion

Pierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by side

like worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as the

royal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenaders

in the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them an

affectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching to

smile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, who

harboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passing

processionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was therefore

greatly surprised and touched by the amiable _bonhomie_ of this royal

pair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smiling

affection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of the

King's kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passion

for sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries of

power, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from the

imperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted.* But the Queen

was yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that she

alone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman of

great culture and great refinement, conversant with every field of

literature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to those

around her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond of

showing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways.

* King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor

Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect

horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of

politics.--Trans.

Like Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenly

pointing to the crowd he said: "Now that they have seen the Queen they

will go to bed well pleased. And there isn't a single police agent there,

I'm sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!" Plainly enough his distress of

spirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, he

tried to play the jester. "Attention, my dear Abbe, we mustn't miss their

Majesties' entry. That will be the finest part of the _fete_!"

A few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, the

orchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all the

blare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancers

fled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the King

and Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, who

had received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinary

evening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin,

covered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants which

encircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a fresh

and rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, and

wit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence of

welcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press of

people who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, the

Saccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending the

termination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smiles

were exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst all

the guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks and

glittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with the

fires of precious stones.

At last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties were

already acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quite

affectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, was

particularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supple

spine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, in

such wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in the

capacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty's army, whilst his homage as a

handsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reserved

for Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves very

gracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent,

had remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that was

destined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta,

whom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, who

greatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile in

such wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversation

of some minutes' duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured with

some extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to all

around. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day,

the dissolution of Benedetta's marriage with Prada, and her coming union

with Dario so publicly announced at this _gala_, which now seemed to have

been given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless that

conversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing but

the compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous and

intelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, she

became yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness she

felt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice,

that happiness which made her look so radiant.

But, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now became

intense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with the

ladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers,

diplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Prada

saw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted by

affection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiant

like herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for them

that the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them that

the most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them

with precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to

the strains of the Royal March, for them that the _fete_ was becoming

like an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,

appearing at that betrothal _gala_ like the good fairy of the nursery

tales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this

wondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their

apogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman

who had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now

was about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting

victory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did

his pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the

Saccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough

conquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful

climate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a

sensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in

connection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that

his millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were

going badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,

amidst that _fete_ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day

like one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced

upon under the flaming sun.

And the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,

allying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman

aristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national

funds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and

Italy--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,

for the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were

being pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and

escaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh,

stirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would be

healed.

Again did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairing

growl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, and

asked him: "Are you suffering?" But on seeing how livid was the face of

Prada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, he

regretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered.

And then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went on

speaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: "Your

father was right," said he, "we Frenchmen whose education is so full of

the Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we never

think of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcely

know, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year,

have brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when I

arrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working to

make a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!

Yes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream of