CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1455.07 
 
 Don Orsino. 
 
 3 1924 021 992 007 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 992007 
 
DON ORSINO 
 
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DON ORSINO 
 
 BT 
 
 F. MAKION CKAWFOED 
 
 BE TATBS," " Z0B0A9TEB 
 " SABACINESCA," ETC. ' 
 
 AUTHOR OP " THE THBEE TATES," " ZOKOASTEK," " DR. CLAUDIUS,'* 
 
 Wefa gorfe 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND lONDOK 
 
 1893 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
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 \4SS 
 
 /\. 6-2. S-GL^ 
 
 
 
 COPTBISHT, 1891, 
 
 By MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 Reprinted January, April, 1893. 
 
 NotinooB Jlrcee : 
 
 J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
 
 Boston, IVIass., U.S.A. 
 
DO]^ OKsmo. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Don Oesino Saeacinesca is of the younger age and 
 lives in the younger Eome, with his father and mother, 
 under the roof of the vast old palace which has sheltered 
 so many hundreds of Saracinesca in peace and war, but 
 which has rarely in the course of the centuries been the 
 home of three generations at once during one and twenty 
 years. 
 
 The lover of romance may lie in the sun, caring not 
 for the time of day and content to watch the butterflies 
 that cross his blue sky on the way from one flower to 
 another. But the historian is an entomologist who must 
 be stirring. He must catch the moths, which are his 
 facts, in the net which is his memory, and he must fasten 
 them upon his paper with sharp pins, which are dates. 
 
 By far the greater number of old Prince Saracinesea's 
 contemporaries are dead, and more or less justly forgot- 
 ten. *01d Valdarno died long ago in his bed, surrounded 
 by sons and daughters. The famous dandy of other days, 
 the Duke of Astrardente, died at his young wife's feet 
 some three and twenty years before this chapter of family 
 history opens. Then the primeval Prince Montevarehi 
 came to a violent end at the hands of his librarian, 
 leavftig his English princess consolable but unconsoled, 
 leaving also his daughter Flavia married to that other 
 Giovanni Saracinesca who still bears the name of Mar- 
 chese di San Giacinto ; while the younger girl, the fair, 
 S B 1 
 
2 DON OKSINO. 
 
 brown-eyed Taustina, loved a poor rrenchman, half sol- 
 dier and all artist. The weak, good-natured Ascanio 
 Bellegra reigns in his father's stead, the timidly extrava- 
 gant master of all that wealth which the miser's lean and 
 crooked fingers had consigned to a safe keeping. Frangi- 
 pani too, whose son was to have married Faustina, is 
 gone these many years, and others of the older and 
 graver sort have learned the great secret from the lips of 
 death. 
 
 But there have been other and greater deaths, beside 
 which the mortality of a whole society of noblemen sinks 
 into insignificance. An empire is dead and another has 
 arisen in the din of a vast war, begotten in bloodshed, 
 brought forth in strife, baptized with fire. The France we 
 knew is gone, and the French Republic writes " Liberty, 
 Fraternity, Equality " in great red letters above the gate 
 of its habitation, which within is yet hung with mourning. 
 Out of the nest of kings and princes and princelings, and 
 of all manner of rulers great and small, rises the solitary 
 eagle of the new G-erman Empire and hangs on black 
 wings between sky and earth, not striking again, but 
 always ready, a vision of armed peace, a terror, a problem 
 — perhaps a warning. 
 
 Old Eome is dead, too, never to be old Rome again. 
 The last breath has been breathed, the aged eyes are 
 closed for ever, corruption has done its work, and the 
 grand skeleton lies bleaching upon seven hills, half cov- 
 ered with the piecemeal stucco of a modern architectural 
 body. The result is satisfactory to those who have 
 brought it about, if not to the rest of the world. The- 
 sepulchre of old Rome is the new capital of united Italy. 
 
 The three chief actors are dead also — the man of 
 heart, the man of action and the man of wit, the good, 
 the brave and the cunning, the Pope, the King and the 
 Cardinal — Pius the Ninth, Victor Emmanuel the Sectind, 
 Giacomo Antonelli. Rome saw them all dead. 
 
 In a poor chamber of the Vatican, upon a simple bed, 
 beside which burned two waxen torches in the cold morn- 
 
DON OESINO. 3 
 
 ing light, lay the body of the man -whom none had loved 
 and many had feared, clothed in the violet robe of the 
 cardinal-deacon. The keen face was drawn up on one 
 side with a strange look of mingled pity and contempt. 
 The delicate, thin hands were clasped together on the 
 breast. The chilly light fell upon the dead features, 
 the silken robe and the stone floor. A single servant in 
 a shabby livery stood in a corner, smiling foolishly, 
 while the tears stood in his eyes and wet his unshaven 
 cheeks. Perhaps he cared, as servants will, when no 
 one else cares. The door opened almost directly upon a 
 staircase and the noise of the feet of those passing up 
 and down upon the stone steps disturbed the silence in 
 the death chamber. At night the poor body was thrust 
 unhonoured into a common coach and driven out to its 
 resting-place. 
 
 In a vast hall, upon an enormous catafalque, full thirty 
 feet above the floor, lay all that was left of the honest 
 king. Thousands of .wax candles cast their light up to 
 the dark, shapeless face, and upon the military accoutre- 
 ments of ,the uniform in which the huge body was 
 clothed. A great crowd pressed to the railing to gaze 
 their fill and go away. . Behind the division tall troopers 
 in cuirasses mounted guard and moved carelessly about. 
 It was all tawdry, but tawdry on a magnificent scale — 
 all unlike the man in whose honour it was done. For he 
 had been simple and brave. 
 
 When he was at last borne to his tomb in the 
 Pantheon, a file of imperial and royal princes marched 
 shoulder to shoulder down the street before him, and the 
 black charger he had loved was led after him. 
 
 In a dim chapel of St. Peter's lay the Pope, robed 
 in white, the jewelled tiara upon his head, his white face 
 calm and peaceful. Six torches burned beside hini; six 
 nobles of the guard stood like statues with drawn swords, 
 three on his right hand and three on his left. That was 
 all. The crowd passed in single file before the great 
 closed gates of the Julian Chapel. 
 
4 DON ORSINO. 
 
 At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to 
 the deep crypt below. But at another time, at night 
 also, the dead man was taken up and driven towards the 
 gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great 
 crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little 
 band and stoned the coffin of him who never harmed 
 any man, and screamed out curses and blasphemies till 
 all the city was astir with riot, That was the last 
 funeral hymn. 
 
 Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad 
 thoroughfares, the Jews' quarter is a flat and dusty 
 building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is swept away, 
 one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have 
 fallen under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited 
 quarter is built upon the site of the enchanted garden. 
 The network of by-ways from the Jesuits' church to the 
 Sant' Angelo bridge is ploughed up and opened by the 
 huge Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. Buildings which 
 strangers used to search for in the shade, guide-book 
 and map in hand, are suddenly brought into the blaze of 
 light that fills broad streets and sweeps across great 
 squares. The vast Cancelleria stands out nobly to the 
 sun, the curved front of the Massimo palace exposes its 
 black colonnade to sight upon the greatest thorough- 
 fare of the new city, the ancient Arco de' Cenci exhibits 
 its squalor in unshadowed sunshine, the Portico of 
 Oetavia once more looks upon the river. 
 
 He who was born and bred in the Eome of twenty years 
 ago comes back after a long absence to wander as a 
 stranger in streets he never knew, among houses un- 
 familiar to him, amidst a population whose speech 
 sounds strange in his ears. He roams the city from the 
 Lateran to the Tiber, from the Tiber to the Vatican, 
 finding himself now and then before some building once 
 familiar in another aspect, losing himself perpetually in 
 unprofitable wastes made more monotonous than the 
 sandy desert by the modern builder's aft. Where once 
 he lingered in old days to glance at the river, or to 
 
DON OKSINO. 5 
 
 dream of days yet older and long gone, scarce conscious 
 of the beggar at his elbow and hardly seeing the half 
 dozen workmen who laboured at their trades almost in 
 the middle of the public way — where all was once aged 
 and silent and melancholy and full of the elder memories 
 — ^there, at that very corner, he is hustled and jostled by 
 an eager crowd, thrust to the wall by huge, grinding, ' 
 creaking carts, threat^ed with the modern death by the 
 wheel of the modern omnibus, deafened by the yells of 
 the modern newsvendors, robbed, very likely, by the 
 light fingers of the modern inhabitant. 
 
 And yet he feels that Eome must be Eome still. He 
 stands aloof and gazes at the sight as upon a play in 
 which Eome herself is the great heroine and actress. 
 He knows the woman and he sees the artist for the first 
 time, not recognising her. She is a dark-eyed, black- 
 haired, thoughtful woman when not upon the stage. 
 How should he know her in the strange disguise, her 
 head decked with Gretchen's fair tresses, her olive cheek 
 daubed with pink and white paint, her stately form 
 clothed in garments that would be gay and girlish but 
 which are only unbecoming ? He would gladly go out 
 and wait by the stage door until the performance is over, 
 to see the real woman pass him in the dim light of the 
 street lamps as she enters her carriage and becomes her- 
 self again. And so, in the reality, he turns his back 
 upon the crowd and strolls away, not caring whither he 
 goes until, by a mere accident, he finds himself upon the 
 height of Sant' Onofrio, or standing before the great 
 fountains of the Acqua Paola, or perhaps upon the drive 
 which leads through the old Villa Corsini along the crest 
 of the Janiculum. Then, indeed, the scene thus changes, 
 the actress is gone and the woman is before him ; the 
 capital of modern Italy sinks like a vision into the earth 
 out of which it was called up, 'and the capital of the 
 world rises once more, unchanged, unchanging and un- 
 changeable, before the wanderer's eyes. The greater 
 monuments of greater times are there still, majestic and 
 
6 DON OESINO. 
 
 unmoved, the larger signs of a larger age stand out clear 
 and sharp ; the tomb of Hadrian frowns on the yellow 
 stream, the heavy hemisphere of the Pantheon turns its 
 single opening to the sky, the enormous dome of the 
 world's cathedral looks silently down upon the sepulchre 
 pt the world's masters. 
 
 Then the sun sets and the wanderer goes down again 
 through the chilly evening air to the city below, to find 
 it less modern than he had thought. He has found 
 what he sought and he knows that the real will outlast 
 the false, that the stone will outlive the stucco and that 
 the builder of to-day is but a builder of card-houses be- 
 side the architects who made Rome. 
 
 So his heart softens a little, or at least grows less re- 
 sentful, for he has realised how small the change really 
 is as compared with the first effect produced. The great 
 house has fallen into new hands and the latest tenant is 
 furnishing the dwelling to his taste. That is all. He 
 will not tear down the walls, for his hands are too feeble 
 to build them again, even if he were not occupied with 
 other matters and hampered by the disagreeable con- 
 sciousness of the extravagances he has already com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Other things have been accomplished, some of which 
 may perhaps endure, and some of which are good in 
 themselves, while some are indifferent and some dis- 
 tinctly bad. The great experiment of Italian unity is 
 in process of trial and the world is already forming its 
 opinion upon the results. Society, heedless as it neces- 
 sarily is of contemporary history, could not remain 
 indifferent to the transformation of its accustomed sur- 
 roundings ; and here, before entering upon an account of 
 individual doings, the chronicler may be allowed to say 
 a few words upon a matter little understood by foreign- 
 ers, even when they have spent several seasons in Rome 
 and have made acquaintance with each other for the pur- 
 pose of criticising the Romans. 
 
 Immediately after the taking of the city in 1870, three 
 
DON OKSINO. 7 
 
 distinct parties declared themselves,' to wit, the Clericals 
 or Blacks, the Monarchists or Whites, and the Eepubli- 
 cans or Eeds. All three had doubtless existed for a con- 
 siderable time, but the wine of revolution favoured the 
 expression of the truth, and society awoke one morning 
 to find itself divided into camps holding very different 
 opinions. 
 
 At first the mass of the greater nobles stood together 
 for the lost temporal power of the Pope, while a great 
 number of the less important families followed two or 
 three great houses in siding with the Eoyalists. The 
 Republican idea, as was natural, found but few sym- 
 pathisers in the highest class, and these were, I believe, 
 in all cases young men whose fathers were Blacks or 
 Whites, and most of whom have since thought fit to 
 modify their opinions in one direction or the other. 
 Nevertheless the Eed interest was, and still is, tolerably 
 strong and has been destined to play that powerful part 
 in parliamentary life, which generally falls to the lot 
 of a compact third party, where a fourth does not yet 
 exist, or has no political influence, as is the case in 
 Rome. 
 
 For there is a fourth body in Rome, which has little 
 political but much social importance. It was not possi- 
 ble that people who had grown up together in the in- 
 timacy of a close caste-life, calling each other " thee " and 
 "thou," and forming the hereditary elements of a still 
 feudal organisation, should suddenly break off all ac- 
 quaintance and be strangers one to another. The 
 brother, a born and convinced clerical, found that his 
 own sister had followed her husband to the court of the 
 new King. The rigid adherent of the old order met his 
 own son in the street, arrayed in the garb of an Italian 
 officer. The two friends who had stood side by side in 
 good and evil ease for a score of years saw themselves 
 suddenly divided by the gulf which lies between a 
 Roman cardinal and a Senator of the Italian Kingdom. 
 The breach was sudden and great, but it was bridged for 
 
8 DON OESINO. 
 
 many by the invention of a fourth proportional. The 
 points of contact between White and Black became G-rey, 
 and a social power, politically neutral and constitution- 
 ally indifferent, arose as a mediator between the Con- 
 tents and the Malcontents. There were families that 
 had never loved the old order but which distinctly dis- 
 liked the new, and who opened their doors to the adher- 
 ents of both. There is a house which has become Grey 
 out of a sort of superstition inspired by the unfortunate 
 circumstances which oddly coincided with each move- 
 ment of its members to join the new order. There is 
 another, and one of the greatest, in which a very high 
 hereditary dignity in the one party, still exercised by 
 force of circumstances, effectually forbids the expres- 
 sion of a sincere sympathy with the opposed power. 
 Another there is, whose members are cousins of the one 
 sovereign and personal friends of the other. 
 
 A further means of amalgamation has been found in 
 the existence of the double embassies of the great powers. 
 Austria, France and Spain each send an Ambassador to 
 the King of Italy and an Ambassador to the Pope, of 
 like state and importance. Even Protestant Prussia 
 maintains a Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See. 
 Russia has her diplomatic agent to the Vatican, and 
 several-of the smaller powers keep up two distinct lega- 
 tioqs. It is naturally neither possible nor intended that 
 these diplomatists should never meet on friendly terms, 
 though Uiey are strictly interdicted from issuing official 
 invitations to each other. Their point of contact is 
 another grey square on the chess-board. 
 
 The foreigner, too, is generally a neutral individual, 
 for if his political convictions lean towards the wrong 
 side of the Tiber his social tastes incline to Court balls ; 
 or if he is an admirer of Italian institutions, his curi- 
 osity may yet lead him to seek a presentation? at the 
 Vatican, and his inexplicable though recent love of 
 feudal princedom may take him, card-case in hand, to 
 that great stronghold of "Vaticanism which lies due west 
 of the Piazza di Venezia and due north of the Capitol. 
 
DON OESINO. 9 
 
 During the early years which followed the change, the 
 attitude of society in Eome was that of protest and in- 
 dignation on the one hand, of enthusiasm and rather 
 brutally expressed triumph on the other. The line was 
 very clearly drawn, for the adherence was of the nature 
 of personal loyalty on both sides. Eight years and a 
 half later the personal feeling disappeared with the al- 
 most simultaneous death of Pius IX. and Victor Emman- 
 uel II. From that time the great strife degenerated by 
 degrees into a difference of opinion. It may perhaps 
 be said also that both parties became aware of their 
 common enemy, the social democrat, soon after the dis- 
 appearance of the popular King whose great individual 
 influence was of more value to the cause of a united 
 monarchy than all the political clubs and organisations 
 in Italy put together. He was a strong man. He only 
 once, I think, yielded to the pressure of a popular excite- 
 ment, namely, in the matter of seizing Eome when the 
 French troops were withdrawn, thereby violating a rati- 
 fied Treaty. But his position was a hard one. He 
 regretted the apparent necessity, and to the day of his 
 death he never would sleep under the roof of Pius the 
 Ninth's Palace on the Quirinal, but had his private 
 apartments in an adjoining building. He was brave and 
 generous. Such faults as he had were no burden-to the 
 nation and concerned himself alone. The same praise 
 may be worthily bestowed upon his successor, but the 
 personal influence is no longer the same, any mere than 
 that of Leo XIII. can be compared with that of Pius 
 IX., though all the world is aware of the present Pope's 
 intellectual superiority and lofty moral principle. 
 
 Let us try to be just. The unification of Italy has 
 been the result of a noble conception. The execution of 
 the scheme has not been without faults, and some of 
 these faults have brought about deplorable, even dis- 
 astrousj consequences, such as to endanger the stability 
 of the new order. The worst of these attendant errors 
 has been the sudden imposition of a most superficial and 
 
10 DON OESINO. 
 
 vicious culture, under the name of enlightenment and 
 education. The least of the new Government's mistakes 
 has been a squandering of the public money, which, when 
 considered with reference to the country's resources, has 
 perhaps no parallel in the history of nations. 
 
 Yet the first idea was large, patriotic, even grand. 
 The men who first steered the ship of the state were 
 honourable, disinterested, devoted — men like Minghetti, 
 who will not soon be forgotten — loyal, conservative 
 monarchists, whose thoughts were free from exaggera- 
 tion, save that they believed almost too blindly in the 
 power of a constitution to build up a kingdom, and 
 credited their fellows almost too readily with a purpose 
 as pure and blameless as their own. Can more be said 
 for these? I think not. They rest in honourable graves, 
 their doings live in honoured remembrance — would that • 
 there had been such another generation to succeed them. 
 
 And having said thus much, let us return to the indi- 
 viduals who have played a part in the history of the 
 Saracinesca. They have grown older, some gracefully, 
 some under protest, some most unbecomingly. 
 
 In the end of the year 1887 old Leone Saracinesca is 
 still alive, being eighty-two years of age. His massive 
 head has sunk a little between his slightly rounded 
 shoulders, and his white beard is no longer cut short and 
 square, but flows majestically down upon his broad 
 breast. His step is slow, but firm still, and when he 
 looks up suddenly from under his wrinkled lids, the fire 
 is not even yet all gone from his eyes; He is still con- 
 tradictory by nature, but he has mellowed like rare wine 
 in the long years of prosperity and peace. When the 
 change came in Rome he was in the mountains at Sara- 
 cinesca, with his daughter-in-law. Corona and her chil- 
 dren. His son Giovanni, generally known as Prince of 
 Sant' Hario, was among the volunteers at the last and 
 sat for half a day upon his horse in the Pincio, listening 
 to the bullets that sang over his head while his men fired 
 stray shots from the parapets of the public garden into 
 
DON OESINO. 11 
 
 the road below. Giovanni is fifty-two years old, but 
 though his hair is grey at the temples and his figure 
 a trifle sturdier and broader than of old, he is little 
 changed. His son, Orsino, who will soon be of age, over- 
 tops him by a head and shoulders, a dark youth, slender 
 still, but strong and active, the chief person in this por- 
 tion of my chronicle. Orsino has three brothers of 
 ranging ages, of whom the youngest is scarcely twelve 
 years old. Not one girl child has been given to Giovanni 
 and Corona and they almost wish that one of the sturdy 
 little lads had been a daughter. But old Saracinesca 
 laughs and shakes his head and says he will not die till 
 his four grandsons are strong enough to bear him to his 
 grave upon their shoulders. 
 
 Corona is still beautiful, still dark, still magnificent, 
 though she has reached the age beyond which no woman 
 ever goes until after death. There are few lines in the 
 noble face and such as are there are not the scars of 
 heart wounds. Her life, too, has been peaceful and 
 undisturbed by great events these many years. There is, 
 indeed, one perpetual anxiety in her existence, for the 
 old prince is an aged man and she loves him dearly. 
 The tough strength must give way some day and there 
 will be a great mourning in the house of Saracinesca, nor 
 will any mourn the dead more sincerely than Corona. 
 And there is a shade of bitterness in the knowledge that 
 her marvellous beauty is waning. Can she be blamed 
 for that ? She has been beautiful so long. What 
 woman who has been first for a quarter of a century can 
 give up her place without a sigh? But much has been 
 given to her to soften the years of transition, and she 
 knows that also, when she looks from her husband to her 
 four boys. 
 
 Then, too, it seems more easy tp grow old when she 
 catches a glimpse from time to time of Donna TuUia Del 
 Ferice, who wears her years ungracefully, and who was 
 once so near to- becoming Giovanni Saracinesca's wife. 
 Donna TuUia is fat and fiery of complexion, uneasily 
 
12 DON OESINO. 
 
 vivacious and unsure of herself. Her disagreeable blue 
 eyes have not softened, nor has the metallic tone of her 
 voice lost its sharpness. Yet she should not be a dis- 
 appointed woman, for Del Ferioe is a power in the land, 
 a member of parliament, a financier and a successful 
 schemer, whose doors are besieged by parasites and his 
 dinner-table by those who wear fine raiment and dwell 
 in kings* palaces. Del Ferice is the central figure in 
 the great building syndicates which in 1887 are at the 
 height of their power. He juggles with millions of 
 money, with miles of real estate, with thousands of work- 
 men. He is director of a bank, president of a political 
 club, chairman of half a dozen companies and a deputy 
 in the chambers. But his face is unnaturally pale, his 
 body is over-corpulent, and he has trouble with his heart. 
 The Del Ferice couple are childless, to their own great 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Anastase Gouache, the great painter, is also in Eome. 
 Sixteen years ago he married the love of his life, Faustina 
 Montevarchi, in spite of the strong opposition of her 
 family. But times had changed. A new law existed 
 and the thrice repeated formal request for consent made 
 by Faustina to her mother, freed her from parental 
 authority and brotherly interference. She and her hus- 
 band passed through some very lean years in the begin- • 
 ning, but fortune has smiled upon them since that. 
 Anastase is very famous. His character has changed 
 little. With the love of the ideal republic in his heart, 
 he shed his blood at Mentana for the .great conservative 
 principle, he fired his last shot for the same cause at the 
 Porta Pia on the twentieth of September 1870 ; a month 
 later he was fighting for France under the gallant 
 Charette — ^whether for Prance imperial, regal or repub- 
 lican he never paused to ask ; he was wounded in fight- 
 ing against the Commune, and decorated for painting the 
 portrait of Gambetta, after which he returned to Eome, 
 cursed politics and married the woman he loved, which 
 was, on the whole, the wisest course he could have 
 
DON OESINO. 18 
 
 followed. He has two children, both girls, aged now 
 respectively fifteen and thirteen. His virtues are many, 
 but they do not include economy. Though his savings 
 are small and he depends upon his brush, he lives in one 
 wing of an historic palace and gives dinners which are 
 famous. He proposes to reform and become a miser 
 when his daughters are married. 
 
 "Misery will be the foundation of my second manner, 
 my angel," he says to his wife, when he has done some- 
 thing unusually extravagant. 
 
 But Faustina laughs softly and winds her arm about 
 his neck as they look together at the last great picture. 
 Anastase has not grown fat. The gods love him and 
 have promised him eternal youth. He can still buckle 
 round his slim waist the military belt of twenty years 
 ago, and there is scarcely one white thread in his black 
 hair. 
 
 San Giacinto, the other Saracinesca, who married 
 Faustina's elder sister Flavia, is in process of making a 
 great fortune, greater perhaps than the one so nearly 
 thrust upon him by old Montevarchi's compact with 
 Meschini the librarian and forger. He had scarcely 
 troubled himself to conceal his opinions before the 
 change of government, being by nature a calm, fearless 
 man, and under the new order he unhesitatingly sided 
 with the Italians, to the great satisfaction of Flavia, who 
 foresaw years of dulness for the mourning party of the 
 Blacks. He had already brought to Eome the two boys 
 who remained to him from his first marriage with Sera- 
 fina Baldi — the little girl who had been born between the 
 other two children had died in infancy — and the lads 
 had been educated at a military college, and in 1887 are 
 both ofiicers in the Italian cavalry, sturdy and somewhat 
 thick-skulled patriots, but gentlemen nevertheless in 
 spite of the peasant blood. They are tall fellows enough 
 but neither of them has inherited the father's colossal 
 stature, and San Giacinto looks with a very little envy 
 on his young kinsman Orsino who has outgrown his 
 
14 DON OESINO. 
 
 cousins. This second marriage has brought him issue, 
 a boy and a girl, and the fact that he has now four chil- 
 dren to provide for has had much to do with his activity 
 in affairs. He was among the first to see that an 
 enormous fortune was to be made in the first rush for 
 land in the city, and he realised all he possessed, and 
 borrowed to the full extent of his credit to pay the first 
 instalments on the land he bought, risking everything 
 with the calm determination and cool judgment which 
 lay at the root of his strong character. He was im- 
 mensely successful, but though he had been bold to reck- 
 lessness at the right moment, he saw the great crash 
 looming in the near future, and when the many were 
 frantic to buy and invest, no matter at what loss, his 
 millions were in part safely deposited in national bonds, 
 and in part as securely invested in solid and profitable 
 buildings of which the rents are little liable to fluctua- 
 tion. Brought up to know what money means, he is not 
 easily carried away by enthusiastic reports. He knows 
 that when the hour of fortune is at hand no price is too 
 great to pay for ready capital, but he understands that 
 when the great rush for success begins the psychological 
 moment of finance is already passed. When he dies, if 
 such strength as his can yield to death, he will die the 
 richest man in Italy, and he will leave what is rare in 
 Italian finance, a stainless name. 
 
 Of one person more I must speak, who has played a 
 part in this family history. The melancholy Spicca 
 still lives his lonely life in the midst of the social world. 
 He affects to be a little old-fashioned in his dress. His 
 tall thin body stoops ominously and his cadaverous face 
 is more grave and ascetic than ever. He is said to have 
 been suffering from a mortal disease these fifteen years, 
 but still he goes everywhere, reads everything and knows 
 every one. He is between sixty and seveinty years old, 
 but no one knows his precise age. The foils he once 
 used so well hang untouched and rusty, above his fire- 
 place, but his reputation survives, th«.'lost strength of his 
 
DON ORSINO. 15 
 
 supple wrist, and there are few in Eome, brave men or 
 hairbrained youths, who would willingly anger him even 
 now. He is still the great duellist of his day; the 
 emaciated fingers might still find their old grip upon a 
 sword hilt, the long, listless arm might perhaps once 
 more shoot out with lightning speed, the dull eye might 
 once again light up at the clash of steel. Peaceable, 
 charitable when none are at hand to see him give, 
 gravely gentle now in manner, Count Spicca is thought 
 dangerous still. But he is indeed very lonely in his old 
 age, and if the truth be told his fortune seems to have 
 suffered sadly of late years, so that he rarely leaves 
 Eome, even in the hot summer, and it is very long since 
 he spent six weeks in Paris or risked a handful of gold at 
 Monte Carlo. Yet his life is not over, and he has still 
 a part to play, for his own sake and for the sake of 
 another, as shall soon appear more clearly. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Orsino Saracinesca's education was almost completed. 
 It had been of the modern kind, for his father had 
 early recognised that it would be a disadvantage to the 
 young man in after life if he did not follow the course 
 of study and pass the examinations required of every 
 Italian subject who wishes to hold oiRce in hi^ own 
 country. Accordingly, though he had not been sent to 
 public schools, Orsino had been regularly entered since 
 his childhood for the public examinations and had passed 
 them all in due order, with great difficulty and indiffer- 
 ent credit. After' this preliminary work he had been at 
 an English University for four terms, not with any view 
 to his obtaining a degree after completing the necessary 
 residence, but in order that he might perfect himself in 
 the English language, associate with young men of his 
 
16 DON OKSINO. 
 
 own age and social standing, though of different nation- 
 ality, and acquire that final polish which is so highly- 
 valued in the human furniture of society's temples. 
 
 Orsino was not more highly gifted as to intelligence 
 than many young men of his age and class. Like many 
 of them he spoke English admirably, French tolerably, 
 and Italian with a somewhat Roman twang. He had 
 learned a little German and was rapidly forgetting it 
 again; Latin and Greek had been exhibited to him as 
 dead languages, and he felt no more inclination to assist 
 in their resurrection than is felt by most boys in our day. 
 He had been taught geography in the practical, con- 
 tinental manner, by being • obliged to draw maps from 
 memory. He had been instructed in history, not by 
 parallels, but as it were by tangents, a method produc- 
 tive of odd results, and he had advanced just far enough 
 in the study of mathematics to be thoroughly confused 
 by the terms "differentiation" and "integration." Be- 
 sides these subjects, a multitude of moral and natural 
 sciences had been made to pass in a sort of panorama 
 before his intellectual vision, including physics, chemis- 
 try, logic, rhetoric, ethics and political economy, with a 
 view to cultivating in him the spirit of the age. The 
 Ministry of Public Instruction having decreed that the 
 name of God shall be for ever eliminated from all 
 modern books in use in Italian schools and universities, 
 Orsino's religious instruction had been imparted at home 
 and had at least the advantage of being homogeneous. 
 
 It must not be supposed that Orsino's father and 
 mother were satisfied with this sort of education. But 
 it was not easy to foresee what social and political 
 changes might come about before the boy reached mature 
 manhood. Neither Giovanni nor his wife were of the 
 absolutely " intransigent " way of thinking. They saw 
 no imperative reason to prevent their sons from joining 
 at some future time in the public life of their country, 
 though they themselves preferred not to associate with 
 the party at present in power. Moreover Giovanni 
 
DOK OKSINO. 17 
 
 Saracinesca saw that the abolition of primogeniture had 
 put an end to hereditary idleness, and that although his 
 sons would be rich enough to do nothing if they pleased, 
 yet his grandchildren would probably have to choose 
 between work and genteel poverty, if it pleased the fates 
 to multiply the race. He could indeed leave one half of 
 his wealth intact to Orsino, but the law required that 
 the other half should be equally divided among all; and 
 as the same thing would take place in the second genera- 
 tion, unless a reactionary revolution intervened, the 
 property would before long be divided into very small 
 moieties indeed. For Giovanni ha3 no idea of imposing 
 celibacy upon his younger sons, still less of exerting 
 any infliience he possessed to make them enter the 
 Church. He was too broad in his views for that. They 
 promised to turn out as good men in a struggle as the 
 majority of those who would be opposed to them in life, 
 and they should fight their own battles unhampered by 
 parental authority or caste prejudice. 
 
 Many years earlier Giovanni had expressed his convic- 
 tions in regard to the change of order then imminent. 
 He had said that he would fight as long as there was 
 anything to fight for, but that if the change came he 
 would make the best of it. He was now keeping his 
 word. He had fought as far as fighting had been possi- 
 ble and had sincerely wished that his warlike career 
 might have offered more excitement and opportunity for 
 personal distinction than had been afforded him in 
 spending an afternoon on horseback, listening to the 
 singing of bullets overhead. His amateur soldiering 
 was over long ago, but he was strong, brave and intelli- 
 gent, and if he had been convinced that a second and 
 more radical revolution could accomplish any good re- 
 sult, he would have been capable of devoting himself to 
 its cause with a single-heartedness not usual in these 
 days. But he was not convinced. He therefore lived 
 a quiet life, making the best of the present, improving 
 his lands and doing his best to bring up his sons in such 
 
is DON OESINO. 
 
 a -way as to give them a chance of success when the 
 struggle should come. Orsino was his eldest born and 
 the results of modern education became apparent in him 
 first, as -s^as inevitable. 
 
 Orsino was at this time not quite twenty-one years of 
 age, but the important day was not far distant and in 
 order to leave a lasting memorial of the attaining of his 
 majority Prince Saracinesca had decreed that Corona 
 should receive a portrait of her eldest son executed by 
 the celebrated Anastase Gouache. To this end the 
 young man spent three mornings in every week in the 
 artist's palatial studio, a place about as different from 
 the latter' s first den in the Via San Basilio as the 
 Basilica of Saint Peter is different from a roadside 
 chapel in the Abruzzi. Those who have seen the suc- 
 cessful painter of the nineteenth century in his gloTy 
 will have less dif&eulty in imagining the scene of 
 Gouache's labours than the writer finds in describing it. 
 The workroom is a hall, the ceiling is a vault thirty feet 
 high, the pavement is of polished marble; the light 
 enters by north windows which would not look small in 
 a good-sized church, the doors would admit a carriage 
 and pair, the tapestries upon the walls would cover the 
 front of a modern house. Everything is on a grand 
 scale, of the best period, of the most genuine descrip- 
 tion. Three or four originals of great masters, of Titian, 
 of Reubens, of Van Dyck, stand on huge easels in the 
 most favourable lights. Some scores of matchless an- 
 tique fragiaents, both of bronze and marble, are placed 
 here and there upon superb carved tables and shelves 
 of the sixteenth century. The only reproduction visible 
 in the place is a very perfect cast of the Hermes of 
 Olympia. The carpets are all of Shiraz, Sinna, Gjordez 
 or old Baku — no common thing-^ of Smyrna, no unclean 
 aniline production of Russo-Asiatic commerce disturbs 
 the universal harmony. In a full light upon the wall 
 hangs a single silk carpet of wonderful tints, famous in 
 the history of Eastern collections, and upon it is set at 
 
DON ORSINO. 19 
 
 a slanting angle a single priceless Damascus blade — a 
 sword to possess whicH an Arab or a Circassian would 
 commit countless crimes. Anastase Gouache is magnifi- 
 cent in all his tastes and in all his ways. His studio 
 and his dwelling are his only estate, his only capital, 
 his only wealth, and he does not take the trouble to con- 
 ceal the fact. The very idea of a fixed income is as dis- 
 tasteful to him as the possibility of possessing it is 
 distant and visionary. There is always money in abun- 
 dance, money for Faustina's horses and carriages, money 
 for Gouache's select dinners, money for the expensive 
 fancies of both. The paint pot is the mine, the brush is 
 the miner's pick, and the vein has never failed, nor the 
 hand trembled in working it. A golden youth, a golden 
 river flowing softly to the red gold sunset of the end — 
 that is life as it seems to Anastase and Faustina. 
 
 On the morning which opens this chronicle, Anastase 
 was standing before his canvas, palette and brushes in 
 hand, considering the nature of the human face in gen- 
 eral and of young Orsino's face in particular. 
 
 "I have known your father and mother for centuries," 
 observed the painter with a fine disregard of human limi- 
 tations. "Your father is the brown type of a dark man, 
 and your mother is the olive type of a dark woman. 
 They are no more alike than a Eed Indian and an Arab, 
 but you are like both. Are you brown or are you olive, 
 my friend? That is the question. I would like to see 
 you angry, or in love, or losing at play. Those things 
 bring out the real complexion." 
 
 Orsino laughed and showed a remarkably solid set of 
 teeth. But he did not find anything to say. 
 
 "I would like to know the truth about your com- 
 plexion," said Anastase, meditatively. 
 
 "I have no particular reason for being angry," an- 
 swered Orsino, " and I am not in love " 
 
 " At your age ! Is it possible ! " 
 
 "Quite. But I will play cards with you if you like," 
 concluded the young man. 
 
20 DON OESINO. 
 
 "No," returned the other. "It would be of no use. 
 You would win, and if you happened to win much, I 
 should be in a diabolical scrape. But I wish you would 
 fall in love. You should see how I would handle the 
 green shadows under your eyes." 
 
 "It is rather short notice." ' 
 
 " The shorter the better. I used to think that the only 
 real happiness in life lay in getting into trouble, and 
 the only real interest in getting out." 
 
 " And have you changed your mind? " 
 
 "I? No. My mind has changed me. It is astonish- 
 ing how a man may love his wife under favourable cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 Anastase laid down his brushes and lit a cigarette. 
 Eeubens would have sipped a few drops of Rhenish from 
 a Venetian glass. Teniers would have lit a clay pipe. 
 Durer would perhaps have swallowed a pint of Nvirem- 
 berg beer, and Greuse or Mignard would have resorted 
 to their snuff-boxes. We do not know what Michel- 
 angelo or Perugino did under the circumstances, but it is 
 tolerably evident that the man of the nineteenth century 
 cannot think without talking and cannot talk without 
 cigarettes. Therefore Anastase began to smoke and 
 Orsino, being young and imitative, followed his example. 
 
 "You have been an exceptionally fortunate man^" 
 remarked the latter, who was not old enough to be any- 
 thing but cynical in his views of life. 
 
 " Do you think so? Yes — I have been fortunate. But 
 I do not like to think that my happiness has been so very 
 exceptional. The world is a good place, full of happy 
 people. It must be — otherwise purgatory and hell would 
 be useless institutions." 
 
 " You do not suppose all people to be good as well as 
 happy then," said Orsino with a laugh. 
 
 "Good? What is goodness, my friend? One half of 
 the theologians tell us that we shall te happy if we are 
 good and the other half assure us that the only way to 
 be good is to abjure earthly happiness. If you will be- 
 
DON ORSINO. 21 
 
 lieve me, you will never commit the supreme error of 
 choosing between the two methods. Take the world as 
 it is, and do not ask too many questions of the fates. If 
 you are willing to be happy, happiness will come in its 
 own shape." 
 
 Orsino's young face expressed rather contemptuous 
 amusement. At twenty, happiness is a dull word, and 
 satisfaction spells excitement. 
 
 "That is the way people talk," he said. "You have 
 got everything by fighting for it, and you advise me to 
 sit still till the fruit drops into my mouth." 
 
 "I was obliged to fight. Everything comes to you 
 naturally — ^fortune, rank — everything, including mar- 
 riage. Why should you lift a hand? " 
 
 " A man cannot possibly be happy who marries before 
 he is thirty years old," answered Orsino with convic- 
 tion. " How do you expect me to occupy myself during 
 the next ten years?" 
 
 "That is true," Gouache replied, somewhat thought- 
 fully, as though the consideration had not struck him. 
 
 "If I were an artist, it would be different." 
 
 "Oh, very different. I agree with you." Anastase 
 smiled good-humouredly. 
 
 " Because I should have talent — and a talent is an oc- 
 cupation in itself." 
 
 "I daresay you would have talent," Gouache answered, 
 still laughing. 
 
 "No — I did not mean it in that way — I mean that 
 when a man has a talent it makes him think of some- 
 thing besides himself." 
 
 "I fancy there is more truth in that remark than either 
 you or I would at first think," said the painter in a 
 meditative tone. 
 
 "Of course there is," returned the youthful philoso- 
 pher, with more enthusiasm than he would have cared to 
 show if he had been talking to a woman. "What is 
 talent but a combination of the desire to do and the 
 power to accomplish? As for genius, it is never selfish 
 when it is at work." 
 
22 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Is that reflection your own?" 
 
 "I think so," answered Orsino modestly. He was 
 secretly pleased that a man of the artist's experience 
 and reputation should be struck by his remark. 
 
 "I do not think I agree with you," said Gouache. 
 
 Orsino's expression changed a little. He was disap- 
 pointed, but he said nothing. 
 
 " I think that a great genius is often ruthless. Do you 
 remember how Beethoven congratulated a young com- 
 poser after the first performance of his opera? 'I like 
 your opera — I will write music to it.' That was a fine 
 instance of unselfishness, was it not. I can see the 
 young man's face " Anastase smiled. 
 
 "Beethoven was not at work when he made the re- 
 mark," observed Orsino, defending himself. 
 
 "Nor am I," said Gouache, taking up his brushes 
 again. " If you will resume the pose — so — thoughtful 
 but bold — imagine that you are already an ancestor con- 
 templating posterity from the height of a nobler age — 
 you understand. Try and look as if you were already 
 framed and hanging in the Saracinesca gallery between a 
 Titian and a Giorgione." 
 
 Orsino resumed his position and scowled at Anastase 
 with a good will. 
 
 "Not quite such a terrible frown, perhaps," suggested 
 the latter. "When you do that, you certainly look like 
 the gentleman who murdered the Colonna in a street 
 brawl — I forget how long ago. You have his portrait. 
 But I fancy the Princess would prefer — ^yes — that is 
 more natural. You have her eyes. How the world 
 raved about her twenty years ago — and raves still, for 
 that matter." 
 
 "She is the most beautiful woman in the world," said 
 Orsino. There was something in the boy's unaffected 
 admiration of his mother which contrasted pleasantly 
 with his youthful affectation of cynicism and indiffer- 
 ence. His handsome face lighted up a little, and the 
 painter worked rapidly. 
 
DON OESINO. 23 
 
 But tlie expression was not lasting. Orsino was at the 
 age when most young men take the trouble to cultivate 
 a manner, and the lopk of somewhat contemptuous 
 gravity which he had lately acquired was already becom- 
 ing habitual. Since all men in general have adopted 
 the fashion of the mustache, youths who are still wait- 
 ing for the full crop seem to have diificulty in managing 
 their mouths. Some draw in their lips with that air of 
 unnatural sternness observable in rough weather among 
 passengers on board ship, just before they relinquish the 
 struggle and retire from public life. Others contract ' 
 their mouths to the shape of a heart, while there are yet 
 others who lose control of the pendant lower lip and are 
 content to look like idiots, while expecting the hairy 
 growth which is to make them look like men. Orsino 
 had chosen the least objectionable idiosyncrasy and had 
 elected to be of a stern countenance. When he forgot 
 himself he was singularly handsome, and Gouache lay in 
 wait for his moments of forgetfulness. 
 
 "You are quite right," said the Frenchman. "From 
 the classic point of view your mother was and is the 
 most beautiful dark woman in the world. For myself 
 — ^well in the first place, you are her son, and secondly 
 I am an artist and not a critic. The painter's tongue is 
 his brush and his words are colours." 
 
 "What were you going to say about my mother?" 
 asked Orsino with some curiosity. 
 
 " Oh — nothing. Well, if you must hear it, the Princess 
 represents my classical ideal, but not my personal ideal. 
 I have admired some one else more." 
 
 " Donna Faustina? " enquired Orsino. 
 
 "Ah well, my friend — she is my wife, you see. That 
 always makes a great difference in the degree of admira- 
 tion " 
 
 "Generally in the opposite direction," Orsino observed 
 in a tone of elderly unbelief. 
 
 Gouache had just put his brush into his mouth and 
 held it between his teeth as a poodle carries a stick, 
 
24 DOK OESINO. 
 
 ■while he used his thumb on the canvas. The modern 
 painter paints with everything, not excepting his fin- 
 gers. He glanced at his model and then at his Tvork, 
 and got his effect before he answered. 
 
 "YoTi are very hard upon marriage," he said quietly. 
 "Have you tried it?" 
 
 " Not yet. I will wait as long as possible, before I do. 
 It is not every one who has your luck." 
 
 "There was something more than luck in my mar- 
 riage. We loved each other, it is true, but there were 
 difficulties — ^you have no idea what difficulties there 
 were. But Faustina was brave and I caught a little 
 courage from her. Do you know that when the Serristori 
 barracks were blown up she ran out alone to find me 
 merely because she thought I might have been killed? 
 I found her in the ruins, praying for me. It was sub- 
 lime." 
 
 " I have heard that. She was very brave " 
 
 "And I a poor Zouave — and a poorer painter. Are 
 there such women nowadays? Bah! I have not known 
 them. We used to meet at churches and exchange two 
 words while her maid was gone to get her a chair. Oh, 
 the good old time! And then the separations — the 
 taking of Rome, when the old Princess carried all the 
 family off to England and stayed there while we were 
 fighting for poor France — and the coming back and the 
 months of waiting, and the notes dropped from her 
 window at midnight "and the great quarrel with her 
 family when we took advantage of the new law. And 
 then the marriage itself — what a scandal in Rome ! But 
 for the Princess, your mother, I do not know what we 
 should have done. She brought Faustina to the church 
 and drove us to' the station in her own carriage — in the 
 face of society. They say that Ascanio Bellegra hung 
 about the door of the. church while we were being 
 married, but he had not the courage to come in, for fear 
 of his mother. We went to Naples and lived on salad 
 and love — and we had very little else for a year or 
 
DON OESINO. 25 
 
 two. I was not mucli known, then, except in Rome, 
 and Eoman society refused to have its portrait painted 
 by the adventurer who had run away with a daughter of 
 Casa Montevarchi. Perhaps, if we had been rich, we 
 should have hated each other by this time. But we had 
 to live for each other in those days, for every one was 
 against us. I painted, and she kept house — that Eng- 
 lish blood is always practical in a desert. And it was a 
 desert. The cooking — it would have made a billiard 
 ball's hair stand on end with astonishment. She made 
 the salad, and then evolved the roast from the inner 
 consciousness. I painted a chaudfroid on an old plate. 
 It was well done — the transparent quality of the jelly 
 and the delicate ortolans imprisoned within, imploring 
 dissection. Well, must I tell you? We threw it away. 
 It was martyrdom. Saint Anthony's position was envi- 
 able compared with ours. Beside us that good man 
 would have seemed but a humbug. Yet we lived 
 through it all. I repeat it. We lived, and we were 
 happy. It is amazing, how a man may love his wife." 
 
 Anastase had told his story with many pauses, work- 
 ing hard while he spoke, for though he was quite in 
 earnest in. all he said, his chief object was to distract 
 the young man's attention, so as to bring out his natural 
 expression. Having exhausted one of the colours he 
 needed, he drew back and contemplated his work. 
 Orsino seemed lost in thought. 
 
 "What are you thinking about?" asked the painter. 
 
 "Do you think I am too old to become an artist?" 
 enquired the young man. 
 
 "You? Who knows? But the times are too old. It 
 is the same thing." 
 
 "I do not understand." 
 
 " You are in love with the life — not with the profes- 
 sion. But the life is not the same now, nor the art 
 either. Bah ! In a few years I shall be out of fashion. 
 I know it. Then we will go back to first principles. A 
 garret to live in, bread and salad for dinner. Of course 
 
26 DON OESINO. 
 
 — what do you expect? That need not prevent us from 
 living in a palace as long as we can." 
 
 Thereupon Anastase Gouache hummed a very lively 
 little song as he squeezed a few colours from the tubes. 
 Orsino's face betrayed his discontentment. 
 
 "I was not in earnest," he said. "At least, not as to 
 becoming an artist. I only asked the question to be sure 
 that you would answer it just as everybody answers all 
 questions of the kind — by discouraging my wish do any- 
 thing for myself." 
 
 "Why should you do anything? You are so rich! " 
 
 " What everybody says ! Do you know what we rich 
 men, or we men who are to be rich, are expected to be? 
 Farmers. It is not gay." 
 
 "It would be my dream — pastoral, you know — ^Nor- 
 mandy cows, a river with reeds, perpetual Angelus, 
 bread and milk for supper. I adore milk. A nymph here 
 and there — at your age, it is permitted. My dear 
 friend, why not be a farmer? " 
 
 Orsino laughed a little, in spite of himself. 
 
 "I suppose that is an artist's idea of farming." 
 
 "As near the truth as a farmer's idea of art, I dare- 
 say," retorted Gouache. 
 
 "We see you paint, but you never see us at work. 
 That is the difference — ^but that is not the question. 
 Whatever I propose, I get the same answer. I imagine 
 you will permit me to dislike farming as a profession." 
 
 "For the sake of argument, only," said Gouache 
 gravely. 
 
 " Good. For the sake of argument. We will suppose 
 that I am myself in all respects what I am, excepting 
 that I am never to have any land, and only enough 
 money to buy cigarettes. I say, 'Let me take a profes- 
 sion. Let me be a soldier.' Every one rises up and 
 protests against the idea of a Saracinesca serving in the 
 Italian army. Why? 'Eemember that your father 
 was a volunteer officer under Pope Pius Ninth. ' It is 
 comic. He spent an afternoon on the Pincio for his 
 
DON OKBINO. 27 
 
 convictions, and then retired into private life. 'Let 
 me serve in a foreign army — France, Austria, Russia, I 
 do not care.' They are more horrified than ever. 'You 
 have not a spark of patriotism! To serve a foreign 
 power ! How dreadful ! And as for the Russians, they 
 are all heretics. ' Perhaps they are. I will try diplo- 
 macy. 'What? Sacrifice your convictions? Become 
 the blind instrument of a scheming, dishonest ministry? 
 It is unworthy of a Saracinesca! ' I will think no more 
 about it. Let me be a lawyer and enter public life. 'A 
 lawyer indeed! Will you wrangle in public with nota- 
 ries' sons, defend murderers and burglars, and take fees 
 like the old men who write letters for the peasants under 
 a green umbrella in the street? It would be almost bet- 
 ter to turn musician and give concerts. ' ' The Church, 
 perhaps? ' I suggest. ' The Church? Are you not the 
 heir, and will you not be the head of the family some 
 day? You must be mad.' ' Then give me a sum of 
 money and let me try my luck with my cousin San 
 Giacinto.' 'Business? If you make money it is a 
 degradation, and with these new laws you cannot afford 
 to lose it. Besides, you will have enough of business 
 when you have to manage your estates.' So all my 
 questions are answered, and I am condemned at twenty 
 to be a farmer for my natural life. I say so. 'A 
 farmer, forsooth! Have you not the world before you? 
 Have you not received the most liberal education? Are 
 you not rich? How can you take such a narrow view! 
 Come out to the VUla and look at those young thorough- 
 breds, and afterwards we will drop in at the club before 
 dinner. Then there is that reception at the old Princi- 
 pessa Befana's to-night, and the Duchessa della Seecatura 
 is also at home.' That is my life. Monsieur Gouache. 
 There you have the question, the answer and the result. 
 Admit that it is. not gay." 
 
 "It is very serious, on the contrary," answered 
 Gouache who had listened to the detached Jeremiad 
 with more curiosity and interest than he often shewed. 
 
28 DON OBSINO. 
 
 " I see nothing for it, but for you to fall in love without 
 losing a single moment." 
 
 Orsino laughed a little harshly. 
 
 i'l am in the humour, I assure you," he answered. 
 
 "Well, then— what are you waiting for?" enquired 
 Gouache, looking at him. 
 
 "What for? For an object for my afEections, of 
 course. That is rather necessary under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " You may not wait long, if you will consent to stay 
 here another quarter of an hour," said Anastase with a 
 laugh. "A lady is coming, whose portrait I am paint- 
 ing — an interesting woman — -tolerably beautiful- — :i;ather 
 mysterious — here she is, you can have a good look at 
 her, before you make up your mind." 
 
 Anastase took the half-finished portrait of Orsino from 
 the easel and put another in its place, considerably 
 further advanced in execution. Orsino lit a cigarette in 
 order to quicken his judgment, and looked at the canvas. 
 
 The picture was decidedly striking and one felt at once 
 that it must be a good likeness. Gouache was evidently 
 proud of it. It represented a woman, who was certainly 
 not yet thirty years of age, in full dress, seated in a 
 high, carved chair against a warm, dark background. 
 A mantle of some sort of heavy, claret-coloured brocade, 
 lined with fur, was draped across one of the beautiful 
 shoulders, leaving the other bare, the scant dress of the 
 period scarcely breaking the graceful lines from the throat 
 to the soft white hand, of which the pointed fingers hung 
 carelessly over the carved extremity of the arm of the 
 chair. The lady's hair was auburn, her eyes distinctly 
 yellow. The face was an unusual one and not without 
 attraction, very pale, with a full red mouth too wide for 
 perfect beauty, but well modelled — almost too well, 
 Gouache thought. The nose was of no distinct type, 
 and was the least significant feature in the face, but the 
 forehead was broad and massive, the chin soft, promi- 
 nent and round, the brows nmclj arched and, divided by 
 
DON OESINO. 29 
 
 a vertical shadow which, in the original, might be the 
 first indication of a tiny wrinkle. Orsino fancied that 
 one eye or the other wandered a very little, but he could 
 not tell which — the slight defect made the glance dis- 
 quieting and yet attractive. Altogether it was one of 
 those faces which to one man say too little, and to another 
 too much. 
 
 Orsino affected to gaze upon the portrait with uncon- 
 cern, but in reality he was oddly fascinated by it, and 
 Gouache did not fail to see the truth. 
 
 "You had better go away, my friend," he said, with a 
 smile. " She will be here in a few minutes and you will 
 certainly lose jour heart if you see her." 
 
 "What is her name?" asked Orsino, paying no atten- 
 tion to the remark. 
 
 " Donna Maria Consuelo — something or other — a string 
 of names ending in Aragona. I call her Madame 
 d'Aragona for shortness, and she does not seem to 
 object." 
 
 "Married? And Spanish?" 
 
 "I suppose so," answered Gouache. "A widow I be- 
 lieve. She is not Italian and not French, so she must 
 be Spanish." 
 
 "The name does not say much. Many people put 
 'd'Aragona' after their names — some cousins of ours, 
 among others — they are Aranjuez d'Aragona — my 
 father's mother was of that family." 
 
 " I think that is the name — Aranjuez. Indeed I am 
 sure of it, for Faustina remarked that she might be re- 
 lated to you." 
 
 " It is odd. We have not heard of her being in Eome 
 — and I am not sure who she is. Has she been here 
 long?" 
 
 " I have known her a month — since she first came to 
 my studio. She lives in a hotel, and she comes alone, 
 except when I need the dress and then she brings her 
 maid, an odd creature who never speaks and seems to 
 understand no known language." 
 
30 DON OESINO. 
 
 " It is an interesting face. Do you mind if I stay till 
 she comes? We may really be cousins, you know." 
 
 " By all means — you can ask her. The relationship 
 would be with her husband, I suppose." 
 
 "True. I had not thought of that; and he is ^dead, 
 you say? " 
 
 Gouache did not answer, for at that moment the lady's 
 footfall was heard upon the marble floor, soft, quick 
 and decided. Sbe paused a moment in the middle of 
 the room when she saw that the artist was not alone. 
 He went forward to meet her and asked leave to present 
 Orsino, with that polite indistinctness which leaves to 
 the persons introduced the task of discovering one 
 another's names. 
 
 Orsino looked into the lady's eyes and saw that the 
 slight "peculiarity of the glance was real and not due to 
 any error of Gouache's drawing. He recognised each 
 feature in turn in the one look he gave at the face be- 
 fore he bowed, and he saw that the portrait was indeed 
 very good. He was not subject to shyness. 
 
 "We should be cousins, Madame," he said. "My 
 father's mother was an Aranjuez d'Aragona." 
 
 " Indeed? " said the lady with calm indifference, look- 
 ing critically at the picture of herself. 
 
 "I am Orsino Saracinesca, " said the young man, 
 watching her with some admiration. 
 
 " Indeed? " she repeated, a shade less coldly. " I think 
 I have heard my poor husband say that he was connected 
 with your family. What do you thiuk.of my portrait? 
 Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my 
 friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding. He has repro- 
 duced my hideoiJs- nose and my dreadful mouth with a 
 masterly exactness. No — my dear Monsieur Gouache — 
 it is a compliment I pay you. I am in earnest. I do 
 not want a portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, 
 nor of the Minerva Medica with yellow eyes, nor of an 
 imaginary Medea in a fur cloak. I want myself, just as 
 I am. That is exactly what you are doing for me. My- 
 
DON ORSINO. 31 
 
 self and I have lived so long together that I desire a lit- 
 tle memento of the acquaintance." 
 
 " You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious 
 to others," said Gouache, gallantly. Madame d'Aranjuez 
 sank into the carved chair Orsino had occupied. 
 
 "This dear Gouache — he is charming, is he not?" 
 she said with a little laugh. Orsino looked at her. 
 
 "Gouache is right," he thought, with the assurance of 
 his years. " It would be amusing to fall in love with 
 her." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Gouache was far more interested in his work than in the 
 opinions which his two visitors might entertain of each 
 other. He looked at the lady fixedly, moved his easel, 
 raised the picture a few inches higher from the ground 
 and looked again. Orsino watched the proceedings from 
 a little distance, debating whether he should go away or 
 remain. Much depended upon Madame d'Aragona's 
 character, he thought, and of this he knew nothing. 
 Some women are attracted by indifference, and to go 
 away would be to show a disinclination to press the ac- 
 quaintance. Others, he reflected, prefer the assurance 
 of the man who always stays, even without an invitation, 
 rather than lose his chance. On the other hand a sit- 
 ting in a studio is not exactly like a meeting in a draw- 
 ing-room. The painter has a sort of traditional, 
 exclusive right to his sitter's sole attention. The sitter, 
 too, if a woman, enjoys the privilege of sacrificing one- 
 half her good looks in a bad light, to favour the other 
 side which is presented to the artist's view, and the third 
 person, if there be one, has a provoking habit of so plac- 
 ing himself as to receive the least flattering impression. 
 
32 DON ORSINO. 
 
 Hence the great unpopularity of the third person — or 
 "the third inconvenience," as the Eomans call him. 
 
 Orsino stood still for a few moments, wondering 
 whether either of the two would ask him to sit down. 
 As they did not, he was annoyed with them and deter- 
 mined to stay, if only for five minutes. He took up his 
 position in a deep seat under the high window, and 
 watched Madame d'Aragona's profile. Neither she nor 
 Gouache made any remark. Gouache began to brush 
 over the face of his picture. Orsino felt that the silence 
 was becoming awkward. He began to regret that he had 
 remained, for he discovered from his present position 
 that the lady's nose was indeed her defective feature. 
 
 "You do not mind my staying a few minutes?" he 
 said, with a vague interrogation. 
 
 "Ask Madame, rather," answered Gouache, brushing 
 away in a lively manner. Madame said nothing, and 
 seemed not to have heard. 
 
 "Am I indiscreet?" asked Orsino. 
 
 "How? No. Why should you not remain? Only, 
 if you please, sit where I can see you. Thanks. I do 
 not like to feel that some one is looking at me and that 
 I cannot look at him, if I please — and as for me, I am 
 nailed in my position. How can I turn my head? 
 Gouache is very severe." 
 
 "You may have heard, Madame, that a beautiful 
 woman is most beautiful in repose," said Gouache. 
 
 Orsino was annoyed, for he had of course wished to 
 make exactly the same remark. But they were talking 
 in French, and the Frenchman had the advantage of 
 speed. 
 
 " And how about an ugly woman? " asked Madame ; 
 d'Aragona. 
 
 " Motion is most becoming to her — rapid motiop— j 
 towards the door," answered the artist. 
 
 Orsino had changed his position and was standing 
 behind Gouache. 
 
 " I wish you would sit down, " said the latter, after a 
 
DON OESINO. 33 
 
 short pause. "I do not like to feel that any one is 
 standing behind me when I am at work. It is a weak- 
 ness, but I cannot help it. Do you believe in mental 
 suggestion, Madame?" 
 "What is that?" asked Madame d'Aragona vaguely. 
 " I always imagine that a person standing behind me 
 when I am at work is making me see everything as he 
 sees," answered Gouache, not attempting to answer the 
 question. 
 
 Orsino, driven from pillar to post, had again moved 
 away. 
 
 "And do you believe in such absurd superstitions?" 
 enquired Madame d'Aragona with a contemptuous curl 
 of her heavy lips. " Monsieur de Saracinesca, will you 
 not sit down? You make me a little nervous." 
 
 Gouache raised his finely marked eyebrows almost im- 
 perceptibly at the odd form of address, whicli betrayed 
 ignorance either of worldly tisage or else of Orsino's 
 individuality. He stepped back from the canvas and 
 moved a chair forward. 
 
 "Sit here, Prince," he said. "Madame can see you, 
 and you will not be behind me." 
 
 Orsino took the proffered seat without any remark. 
 Madame d'Aragona's expression did not change, though 
 she was perfectly well aware that Gouache had intended 
 to correct her manner of addressing the young man. 
 The latter was slightly annoyed. What difference could 
 it make? It was tactless of Gouache, he thought, for 
 the lady might be angry. 
 
 "Are you spending the winter in Rome, Madame?" he 
 asked. He was conscious that the question lacked 
 originality, but no other presented itself to him. 
 
 " The winter? " repeated Madame d'Aragona dreamily. 
 "Who knows? I am here at present, at the mercy of 
 the great painter. That is all I know. Shall I be here 
 next month, next week? I cannot tell. I know no one. 
 I have never been here before. It is dull. This was 
 my object, " she added, after a short pause. " When it 
 
34 . DON ORSINO. 
 
 is accomplislied I will consider other matters. I may be 
 obliged to aecompany their Eoyal Highnesses to Egypt 
 in January.' That is next month, is it not? " 
 
 It was so very far from clear who the royal highnesses 
 in question might be, that Orsino glanced at Oouache, to 
 see whether he understood. But Gouache was imper- 
 turbable. 
 
 "January, Madame, follows December," he answered. 
 '■' The fact is confirmed by the observations of many cen- 
 turies. Even in my own experience it has occurred 
 forty -seven times in •succession." 
 
 Orsino laughed a little, and as Madame d'Aragona's 
 eyes met his, the red lips smiled, without parting. 
 
 " He is always laughing at me, " she said pleasantly. 
 
 Gouaohe was painting with great alaprity. The smile 
 was becoming to her and he caught it as it passed. It 
 must be allowed that she permitted it to linger, as though 
 she understood his wish, but as she was looking at 
 Orsino, he was pleased. . » 
 
 "If you will permit me to say it, Madame," he ob- 
 served, "I have never seen eyes like yours." 
 
 He endeavoured to lose himself in their depths as he 
 spoke. Madame d' Aragona was not in the leaist annoyed 
 by the remark, nor by the look. 
 
 "What is there so very unusual about my eyes?" she 
 enquired. The smile grew a little more faint and 
 thoughtful but did not disappear. 
 
 "In the first place, I have never seen eyes of a golden- 
 yellow colour." 
 
 "Tigers have yellow eyes," observed Madame d'Ara- . 
 gona. 
 
 " My acquaintance with that animal is at second hand 
 — slight, to say the least." 
 
 "You have never shot one?" 
 
 "Mever, Madame. They donot abound in Eome — nor 
 even, I believe, in Albano. My father killed one when 
 he was a young man. " 
 
 " Prince Saracinesca? " 
 
DON OESINO. 35 
 
 "Sant' Ilario. My grandfather is still alive." 
 
 "How splendid! I adore strong races." 
 
 "It is very interesting," observed Gouache, poking 
 the stick of a brush into the eye of his picture. " I have 
 painted three generations of the family, I who speak to 
 you, and I hope to paint the fourth if Don Orsino here. 
 can be cured of his cynicism and induced to marry Donna 
 — what is her name? " He turned to the young man. 
 
 " She has none — and she is likely to remain nameless," 
 answered Orsino gloomily. 
 
 "We will call her Donna Ignota," suggested Madame 
 d'Aragona. 
 
 "And build altars to the unknown love," added 
 Gouache. 
 
 Madame d'Aragona smiled faintly, but Orsino per- 
 sisted in looking grave. 
 
 "It seems to be an unpleasant subject, Prince." 
 
 "Very unpleasant, Madame," answered Orsino shortly. 
 
 Thereupon Madame d'Aragona looked at Gouache and 
 raised her brows a little as though to ask a question, 
 knowing perfectly well that Orsino was watching her. 
 The young man could not see the painter's eyes, and the 
 latter did not betray by any gesture that he was answer- 
 ing tbe silent interrogation. 
 
 " Then I have eyes like a tiger, you say. You frighten 
 me. How disagreeable — to look like a wild beast! " 
 
 "It is a prejudice," returned Orsino. "One hears 
 people say of a woman that she is beautiful as a tigress." 
 
 "An idea! " exclaimed Gouache, interrupting. "Shall 
 I change the damask cloak" to a tiger's skin? One claw 
 ju^t hanging over the white shoulder — Omphale, you 
 know — in a modern drawing-room — a small cast of the 
 Farnese Hercules upon a bracket, there, on the right. 
 Decidedly, here is an idea. Do you permit, Maidame ! " 
 
 " Anything you like" — only do not spoil the likeness, " 
 answered Madame d'Aragona, leaning back in her chair, 
 and looking sleepily at Orsino from beneath her heavy, 
 half -closed lids. 
 
36 DON OESINO. 
 
 "You will spoil the whole picture," said Orsino, rather 
 anxiously. 
 
 Gouache laughed. 
 
 "What harm if I do? I can restore it in five 
 minutes " 
 
 "Five minutes!" 
 
 "An hour, if you insist upon accuracy of statement," 
 replied Gouache with a shade of annoyance. 
 
 He had an idea, and like most people whom fate occa- 
 sionally favours with that rare commodity he did not like 
 to be disturbed in the realisation of it. He was already 
 squeezing out quantities of tawny colours upon his 
 palette. 
 
 " I am a passive instrument," said Madame d'Aragona. 
 "He does what he pleases. These men of genius — what 
 would you have? Yesterday a gown from Worth — to- 
 day a tiger's skin — indeed, I tremble for to-morrow." 
 
 She laughed a little and turned her head away. 
 
 "You need' not feay," answered Gouache, daubing in 
 his new idea with an enormous brush. "Fashions 
 change. Woman endures. Beauty is eternal. There is 
 nothing which may not be made becoming to a beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 "My dear Gouache, you are insufferable. You are 
 always telling me that I am beautiful. Look at my 
 nose." 
 
 "Yes. I am looking at it." 
 
 "And my mouth." 
 
 " I look. I see. I admire. Have you any other per- 
 sonal observations to make? How many claws has a 
 tiger, Don Orsino? Quick! I am painting the thing." 
 
 "One less than a woman." 
 
 Madame d'Aragona looked at the young man a moment, 
 and broke into a laugh. 
 
 " There is a charming speech. I like that better than 
 Gouache's flattery." 
 
 "And yet you admit that the portrait is like you," said 
 Gfluache. 
 
DON oasmo. 37 
 
 "Perhaps I flatter you, too." 
 
 " Ah ! I had not thoxight of that. " 
 
 "You should be more modest." 
 
 "I lose myself " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In your eyes, Madame. One, two, three, four — are 
 you sure a tiger ha| only four claws ? Where is the creat- 
 ure's thumb — what do you call it? It looks awkward." 
 
 "The dew-claw?" asked Orsino. "It is higher up, 
 behind the paw. You would hardly see it in the skin." 
 
 "But a cat has five claws," said Madame d'Aragona. 
 "Is not a tiger a cat? We must have the thing right, 
 you know, if it is to be done at all." 
 
 "Has a cat five claws?" asked Anastase, appealing 
 anxiously to Orsino. 
 
 "Of course, but you would only see four on the skin." 
 
 "I insist upon knowing," said Madame d'Aragona. 
 "This is dreadful! Has no one got a tiger?- What sort 
 of studio is this — with no tiger ! " , 
 
 "I am not Sarah Bernhardt, nor the emperor of Siam," 
 observed Gouache, with a laugh. 
 
 But Madame d'Aragona was not satisfied. ' 
 
 "I am sure you could procure me one. Prince," she 
 said, turning to Orsino. " I am sure you could, if you 
 would! I shall cry if I do not have one, and it will be 
 your fault." ;• 
 
 "Would you like the animal alive or dead?" inquired 
 Orsino gravely, and he rose from his seat. 
 
 " Ah, I knew you could procure the thing ! " she ex- 
 claimed with grateful enthusiasm. "Alive or dead, 
 Gouache ? Quick — decide ! " 
 
 " As you please, Madame. If you decide to have him 
 alive, I will ask permission to exchange a few words 
 with my wife and children, while some one goes for a 
 priest." 
 
 " You are sublime, to-day. Dead, then, if you please. 
 Prince. Quite dead — but do not say that I was 
 afraid " 
 
38 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Afraid? With a Saraeinesca and a Gouache to de- 
 fend your life, Madame? You are not serious." 
 
 Orsino took his hat. 
 
 "I shall be back in a quarter of an hour," he said, jas 
 he bowed and went out. 
 
 Madame d'Aragona watched his tall young figure till 
 he disappeared. 
 
 "He does not lack spirit, your young friend," she 
 observed. 
 
 "ISTo member of that family ever did, I think," 
 Gouache answered. "They are a remarkable race." 
 
 "And he is the only son?" 
 
 " Oh no! He has three younger brothers." 
 
 "Poor fellow! I suppose the fortune is not very 
 large." 
 
 "I have no means of knowing," replied Gouache in- 
 differently. " Their palace is historic. Their equipages 
 are magnificent. That is all that foreigners see of 
 Eoman families." 
 
 "But you know them intimately?" 
 
 " Intimately — that is saying too much. I have painted 
 their portraits." 
 
 Madame d'Aragona wondered why he was so reticent, 
 for she knew that he had himself married the daughter 
 of a Eoman prince, and she concluded that he must know 
 much of the Eomans. 
 
 "Do you think he will bring the tiger?" she asked 
 presently. 
 
 " He is quite capable of bringing a whole menagerie of 
 tigers for you to choose from." 
 
 " How interesting. I like men who stop at nothing. 
 It was really unpardonable of you to suggest the idea 
 and then to tell me calmly that you had no model for it." 
 
 In the meantime Orsino had descended the stairs and 
 was hailing a passing cab. He debated for a moment 
 what he should do. It chanced that at that time there 
 was actually a collection of wild beasts to be seen in the 
 Prati di Castello, and Orsino supposed that the- owner 
 
DON OBSINO. S9 
 
 miglit be induced, for a large consideration, to part with 
 one of his tigers. He even imagined that he might 
 shoot the beast and bring it back in the cab. But, in 
 the first place, he was not provided with an adequate 
 sum of money nor did he know exactly how to lay his 
 hand on so large a sum as might be necessary, at a 
 moment's notice. He was still under age, and his allow- 
 ance had not been calculated with a view to his buying 
 menageries. Moreover he considered that even if his 
 pockets had been full of bank notes, the idea was ridicu- 
 lous, and he was rather ashamed of his youthful impulse. 
 It occurred to him that what was necessary for the pic- 
 ture was not the carcase of the tiger but the skin, and 
 he remembered that such a skin lay on the floor in his 
 father's private room — the spoil of the animal Giovanni 
 Saracinesca had shot in his youth. It had been well 
 cared for and was a fine specimen. 
 
 "Palazzo Saracinesca," he said to the cabman. 
 
 Now it chanced, as such things will chance in the in- 
 scrutable ways of fate, that Sant' Ilario was just then 
 in that very room and busy with his correspondence. 
 Orsino had hoped to carry off what he wanted, without 
 being questioned, in order to save time, but he now found 
 himself obliged to explain his errand. 
 
 Sant' Ilario looked up in some surprise as his son 
 entered. 
 
 "Well, Orsino? Is anything the matter? " he asked. 
 
 "Nothing serious, father. I want to borrow your 
 tiger's skin for Gouache. Will you lend it to me? " 
 
 "Of course. But what in the world does Gouache 
 want of it? Is he painting you in skins — the primeval 
 youth of the forest?" 
 
 "No — ^not exactly. The fact is, there is a lady there. 
 Gouache talks of painting her as a modern Omphale, 
 with a tiger's skin and a east of Hercules in the bach- 
 ground " 
 
 " Hercules wore a lion' s skin — not a tiger' s . He killed 
 the Nemean lion." 
 
40 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Did he?" inquired Orsino indifferently. "It is all 
 the same — they do not know it, and they want a tiger. 
 When I left they were debating whether they wanted it 
 alive or dead. I thought of buying one at the Prati di 
 Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of 
 you. May I take it?" 
 
 Sant' Ilario laughed. Orsino rolled up the great hide 
 and carried it to the door. 
 
 "Who is the lady, my boy?" 
 
 "I never saw her before — a certain Donna Maria 
 d'Aranjuez d'Aragona. 1 fancy she must be a kind of 
 cousin. Do you know anything about her? " 
 
 "I never heard of such a person. Is that her own 
 name?" 
 
 "'^0 — she seems to be somebody's widow." 
 
 "That is definite. What is she like?" 
 
 "Passably handsome — yellow eyes, reddish hair, one 
 eye wanders." 
 
 "What an awful picture! Do not fall in love with 
 her, Orsino." 
 
 " No fear of that — but she is amusing, and she wants 
 the tiger." 
 
 " You seem to be in a hurry, " observed Sant' Ilario, 
 considerably amused. 
 
 "Naturally. They are waiting for me." 
 
 "Well, go as fast as you can — never keep a woman 
 waiting. By the way, bring the skin back. I would 
 rather you bought twenty live tigers at the Prati than 
 lose that old thing." 
 
 Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to 
 Gouache's studio, having the skin rolled up on his knees, 
 the head hanging out on one side and the tail on the 
 other, to the infinite interest of the people in the street. 
 He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so , 
 little time in conversation with his father, when the 
 figure of a tall woman walking towards him on the pave- 
 ment, arrested his attention. His cab must pass close by 
 her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a hundred 
 
DON OKSINO. 41 
 
 yards' distance. She saw him too and made a sign with 
 her parasol for him to stop. 
 
 "Good-morning, Orsino," said the sweet deep voice. 
 
 " Good-morning, mother," he answered, as he descended 
 hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended 
 to him. 
 
 He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that 
 she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame 
 d'Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed to her that there 
 was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, 
 except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison 
 ceased. Their eyes met affectionately and it would have 
 been hard to say which was the more proud of the other, 
 the son of his mother, or the mother of her son. Never- 
 theless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all ques- 
 tions he told her in as few words as possible the nature 
 of his errand, the object of the tiger's skin, and the name 
 of the lady who was sitting to Gouache. 
 
 "It is strange," said Corona. "I have never heard 
 your father speak of her." 
 
 " He has never heard of her either. He just told me 
 so." 
 
 " I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab 
 and go with you." 
 
 "Do, mother." There was not much enthusiasm in 
 the answer. 
 
 Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head. 
 
 "Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I 
 should only spoil your amusement in the studio, and the 
 lady would see that I had come to inspect her. Two . 
 good reasons — but the first is the better, dear. Go — do 
 not keep them waiting." 
 
 "Will you not take my cab? I can get another." 
 
 "No. I am in no hurry. Good-bye." 
 
 And nodding to him with an affectionate smile. Corona 
 passed on, leaving Orsino free at last to carry the skin 
 to its destination. 
 
 When he entered the studio he found Madame d'Ara- 
 
42 DON OKSINO. 
 
 gona absorbed, in the contemplation of a piece of old 
 tapestry which hung opposite to her, while Gouache was 
 drawing in a tiny Hercules, high up in the right hand 
 corner of the picture, as he had proposed. The conver- 
 sation seemed to have languished, and Orsino was im- 
 mediately conscious that the atmosphere had changed 
 since he had left. He unrolled the skin as he entered, 
 and Madame d'Aragdna looked at it critically. She saw 
 that the tawny colours would become her in the portrait 
 and her expression grew more animated. 
 
 "It is really very good of you," she said, with a grate- 
 ful glance. 
 
 "I have a disappointment in store for you," answered 
 Orsino. " My father says that Hercules wore a lion's 
 skin. He is quite right, I remember all about it." 
 
 "Of course," said Gouache. "How could we make 
 such a mistake ! " 
 
 He dropped the bit of chalk he held and looked at 
 Madame d'Aragona. 
 
 "What difference does it mak^?" asked the latter. 
 "A lion — a tiger! I am sure they are very much alike." 
 
 "After all, it is a tiresome idea," said the painter. 
 " You will be much better in the damask cloak. Besides, 
 with the lion's skin you should have the club — imagine 
 a club in your hands ! And Hercules should be spinning 
 at your feet — a man in a black coat and a high collar, 
 with a distaff! It is an absurd idea." 
 
 "You should not call my ideas absurd and tiresome. 
 It is not civil." 
 
 "I thought it had been mine," observed Gouache. 
 
 "Not at all. I thought of it — it was quite original." 
 
 Gouache laughed a little ajid looked at Orsino as 
 though asking his opinion. 
 
 " Madame is right," said the latter. " She suggested 
 the whole idea — ^by having yellow eyes." 
 
 " You see. Gouache. I told you so. The Prince takes 
 my view. What will you do? " 
 
 " Whatever you command " 
 
DON ORSINO. 43 
 
 " But I do not want to be ridiculous " 
 
 " I do not see " 
 
 "And yet I must have the tiger." 
 
 "I am ready." 
 
 " Doubtless — but you must think of another subject, 
 ■with a tiger in it." 
 
 "Nothing easier. Noble Eoman damsel — Colosseum 
 — ^tiger about to spring — rose " 
 
 " Just heaven ! What an old story ! Besides, I have 
 not the type." 
 
 "The 'Mysteries of Dionysus,'" suggested Gouache. 
 "Thyrsus, leopard's skin " 
 
 " A Bacchante ! Fie, Monsieur — and then, the leopard, 
 when we only have a tiger." 
 
 " Indian princess interviewed by a man-eater — jungle 
 — new moon — tropical vegetation " 
 
 "You can think of nothing but subjects for a dark 
 type," said Madame d'Aragona impatiently. 
 • " The fact is, in countries where the tiger walks abroad, 
 the women are generally brunettes." 
 
 " I hate facts. You who are enthusiastic, can you not 
 help us?" She turned to Orsino. 
 
 "Am I enthusiastic?" 
 
 "Yes, I am sure of it. Think of something." 
 
 Orsino was not pleased. He would have preferred to 
 be thought cold and impassive. 
 
 " What can I say? The first idea was the best. Get a 
 lion instead of a tiger — nothing is simpler." 
 
 " For my part I prefer the damask cloak and the original 
 picture," said Gouache with decision. "All this my- 
 thology is too complicated — too Pompeian — how shall I 
 say? Besides there is no distinct allusion. A Hercules 
 on a bracket — anybody may have that. If you were the 
 Marchessa di San Giacinto, for instance — oh, then every- 
 one would laugh." 
 
 "Why? What is that?" 
 
 "She married my cousin," said Orsino. "He is an 
 enormous giant, and they say that she has tamed him." 
 
44 DON ORSINO. 
 
 " Ah no ! That would not do. Something else, please." 
 
 Orsino involuntarily thought of a sphynx as he looked 
 at the massive brow, the yellow, sleepy eyes, and the 
 heavy mouth. He wondered how the late Aranjuez had 
 lived and what death he had died. 
 
 He offered the suggestion. 
 
 " It would be appropriate, " replied Madame d' Aragona. 
 "The Sphynx in the Desert. Eome is a desert to me." 
 
 " It only depends on you " Orsino began. 
 
 "Oh, of course! To make acquaintances, to show 
 myself a little everywhere — it is simple enough. But it 
 wearies me — until one is caught up in the machinery, 
 a toothed wheel going round with the rest, one only bores 
 oneself, and I may leave so soon. Decidedly it is not 
 worth the trouble. Is it?" 
 
 She turned her eyes to Orsino as though asking his 
 advice. Orsino laughed. 
 
 " How can you ask that question ! " he exclaimed. 
 "Only let the trouble be ours." 
 
 "Ah! I said you were enthusiastic." She shook her 
 head, and rose from her seat. " It is time for me to go. 
 We have done nothing this morning, and it is all your 
 fault. Prince." 
 
 " I am distressed — I will not intrude upon your next 
 sitting." 
 
 " Oh — as far as that is concerned " She did not 
 
 finish the sentence, but took up the neglected tiger's 
 skin from the chair on which it lay. 
 
 She threw it over her shoulders, bringing the grinning 
 head over her hair and holding the forepaws in her 
 pointed white fingers. She came very near to Gouache 
 and looked into his eyes, her closed lips smiling. 
 
 " Admirable ! " exclaimed Gouache. " It is impossi- 
 ble to tell where the woman ends and the tiger begins. 
 Let me draw you like that." 
 
 " Oh no! Not for anything in the world." 
 
 She turned away quickly and dropped the skin from 
 her shoulders. 
 
DON OBSINO. 45 
 
 "You will not stay a little longer? You will not let 
 me try?" Gouache seemed disappointed. 
 
 "Impossible," she answered, putting on her hat and 
 beginning to- arrange her veil before a mirror. 
 
 Orsino watched her as she stood, her arms uplifted, in 
 an attitude which is almost always graceful, even for an 
 otherwise ungraceful woman. Madame d'Aragona was 
 perhaps a little too short, but she was justly proportioned 
 and appeared to be rather slight, though the tight-fitting 
 sleeves of her frock betrayed a remarkably well turned 
 arm. Not seeing her face, one might not have singled 
 her out of many as a very striking woman, for she had 
 neither the stateliness of Orsino's mother, nor the en- 
 chanting grace which distinguished Gouache's wife. 
 But no one could look into her eyes without feeling that 
 she was very far from being an ordinary woman. 
 
 "Quite impossible," she repeated, as she tucked in the 
 ends of her veil and then turned upon the two men. 
 "The next sitting? Whenever you like — to-morrow — 
 the day after — name the time." 
 
 "When to-morrow is possible, there is no choice," 
 said Gouache, "unless you will come again to-day." 
 
 " To-morrow, then, good-bye. " She held out her hand. 
 
 "There are sketches on each of my lingers, Madame 
 — principally of tigers. " 
 
 "Good-bye then — consider your hand shaken. Are 
 you going. Prince?" 
 
 Orsino had taken his hat and was standing beside her. 
 
 " You will allow me to put you into your carriage." 
 
 "I shall walk." 
 
 " So much the better. Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache." 
 
 "Why say, Monsieur?" 
 
 "As you like — you are older than I." 
 
 "I? Who has told you that legend? It is only a 
 myth. When you are sixty years old, I shall still be 
 five-and-twenty . " 
 
 "And I?" enquired Madame d'Aragona, who was still 
 young enough to laugh at age. 
 
46 DON OESmo. 
 
 "As old as you were yesterday, not a day older." 
 
 "Why not say, to-day?" 
 
 " Because to-day has a to-morrow — yesterday has none." 
 
 "You are delicious, my dear Gouache. Good-bye." 
 
 Madame d'Aragona went out with Orsino, and they 
 descended the broad staircase together. Orsino was not 
 sure whether he might not be showing too much anxiety 
 to remain in the company of his new acquaintance, and 
 as he realised how unpleasant it would be to sacrifice 
 the walk with her, he endeavoured to excuse to himself 
 his derogation from his self-imposed character of cool 
 superiority and indifference. She was very amusing, he 
 said to himself, and he had nothing in the world to do. 
 He never had anything to do, since his education had 
 been completed. Why should he not walk with Madame 
 d'Aragona and talk to her? It would be better than 
 hanging about the club or reading a novel at home. The 
 hounds did not meet on that day, or he would not have 
 been at Gouache's at all. But they were to meet to- 
 morrow, and he would therefore not see Madame 
 d'Aragona. 
 
 "Gouache is an old friend of yours, I suppose," ob- 
 served the lady. 
 
 "He was a friend of my father's. He is almost a 
 Eoman. He married a distant connection of mine, 
 Donna Faustina Montevarchi." 
 
 "Ah yes — I have heard. He is a man. of immense 
 genius." 
 
 "He is a man I envy with all my heart," said Orsino. 
 
 " You envy Gouache ? I should not have thought " 
 
 "No? Ah, Madame, to me a man who has a career, 
 a profession, an interest, is a god." 
 
 "I like that," answered Madame d'Aragona. "But it 
 seems to me you have your choice. You have the world 
 before you. Write your name upon it. You do not lack 
 enthusiasm. Is it the inspiration that you need?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Orsino glancing meaningly at her as 
 she looked at him. 
 
 "That is not new," thought she, "but he is charming, 
 
DON OBSINO. 47 
 
 all tlie same. They say," she added alpud, "that genius 
 finds inspiration everywhere." 
 
 " Alas, I am not a genius. What I ask is an ©ccupa- 
 tion, and permanent interest. The thing is impossible, 
 but I am not resigned." 
 
 "Before thirty everything is possible," said Madame 
 d'Aragona. She knew that the mere mention of so 
 mature an age would- be flattering to such a boy. 
 
 "The objections are insurmountable," replied Orsino. 
 
 "What objections? Eemember that I do not know 
 Eome, nor the Romans." 
 
 " We are petrified in traditions. Spicca said the other 
 day that there was but one hope for us. The Americans 
 may yet discover Italy, as we once discovered America." 
 
 Madame d'Aragona smiled. 
 
 " Who is Spicca? " she enquired, with a lazy glance at 
 her companion's face. 
 
 " Spicca? Surely you have heard of him. He used to 
 be a famous duellist. He is our great wit. My father 
 likes him very much — ^he is an odd character." 
 
 " There will be all the more credit in succeeding, if 
 you have to break through a barrier of tradition and prej- 
 udice," said Madame d'Aragona, reverting rather ab- 
 ruptly to the first subject. 
 
 "You do not know what that means." Orsino shook 
 his head incredulously. " You have never tried it." 
 
 " No. How could a woman be placed in such a posi- 
 tion?" 
 
 "That is just it. You cannot understand me." 
 
 " That does not follow. Women often understand men 
 — men they love or detest — ^better than men themselves." 
 
 "Do you love me, Madame?" asked Orsino with a 
 smile. 
 
 "I have just made your acquaintance," laughed 
 Madame d'Aragona. "It is a little too soon." 
 
 "B,ut then, according to you, if you understand me, 
 you detest me." 
 
 "Well? If I do?" She was still laughing. 
 
 "Then I ought to disappear, I suppose." 
 
48 DON OESINO. 
 
 " You do not understand women. Anything is better 
 than indifference. When you see that you are disliked, 
 then ffefuse to go away. It is the very moment to re- 
 main. Do not submit to dislike. Revenge yourself." 
 
 "I will try," said Orsino, considerably amused. 
 
 "Upon me?" 
 
 " Since you advise it " 
 
 "Have I said that I detest you?" 
 
 "More or less." 
 
 " It was only by way of illustration to my argument. 
 I was not serious." 
 
 "You have not a serious character, I fancy," said 
 Orsino. 
 
 " Do you dare to pass judgment on me after an hour's 
 acquaintance? " 
 
 " Since you have judged me ! You have said five times 
 that I am enthusiastic." 
 
 " That is an exaggeration. Besides, one cannot say a 
 true thing too often." 
 
 " How you run on, Madame ! " 
 
 " And you — to tell me to my face that I am not seri- 
 ous! It is unheard of. Is that the way you talk to 
 your compatriots ? " 
 
 "It would not be true. But they would contradict 
 me, as you do. They wish to be thought gay." 
 
 "Do they? I would like to know them." 
 
 " Nothing is easier. Will you allow me the honour of 
 undertaking the matter?" 
 
 They had reached the door of Madame d'Aragona's 
 hotel. She stood still and looked curiously at Orsino. 
 
 "Certainly not," she answered, rather coldly. "It 
 would be asking too much of you — too much of society, 
 and far too much of me. Thanks. Good-bye." 
 
 "May I come and see you?" asked Orsino. 
 
 He Tmew very well that he had gone too far, and his 
 voice was correctly contrite. 
 
 "I daresay we shall meet somewhere," she answered, 
 entering the hotel. 
 
DON OBSINO. 49 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The rage of speculation was at its height in Eome. 
 Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of persons 
 were embarked in enterprises which soon afterwards 
 ended in total ruin to themselves and in very serious 
 injury to many of the strongest financial bodies in the 
 country. Yet it is a fact worth recording that the gen- 
 eral principle upon which affairs were conducted was an 
 honest one. The land was a fact, the buildings put up 
 were facts, and there was actually a certain amount of 
 capital, of genuine ready money, in use. The whole 
 matter can be explained in a few words. 
 
 The population of Rome had increased considerably 
 since the Italian occupation, and house-room was needed 
 for the newcomers. Secondly, the partial execution of 
 the scheme for beautifying the city had destroyed great 
 numbers of dwellings in the most thickly populated 
 parts, and more house-room was needed to compensate 
 the loss of habitations, while extensive lots of land were 
 suddenly set free and offered for sale upon easy condi- 
 tions in all parts of the town. 
 
 Those who availed themselves of these opportunities 
 before the general rush began, realised immense profits, 
 especially when they had some capital of their own to 
 begin with. But capital was not indispensable. A man 
 could buy his lot on credit; the banks were ready to 
 advance him money on notes of hand, in small amounts 
 at high interest, wherewith to build his house or 
 houses. When the building was finished the bank took 
 a first mortgage upon the property, the owner let the 
 house, paid the interest on the mortgage out of the rent 
 and pocketed the difference, as clear gain. In the 
 majority of cases it was the bank itself which sold the 
 lot of land to the speculator. It is clear therefore that 
 
50 DON OBSINO. 
 
 the only money -which actually changed hands was that 
 advanced in small sums by the hank itself. 
 
 As the speculation increased, the banks could not of 
 course afford to lock up all the small notes of hand they 
 received from various quarters. This paper became a 
 circulating medium as far as Vienna, Paris and even 
 London. The crash came when Vienna, Paris and Lon- 
 don lost faith in the paper, owing, in the first instance, 
 to one or two small failures, and returned it upon Eome; 
 the banks, unable to obtain cash for it at any price, and 
 being short of ready money, could then no longer dis- 
 count the speculator's further notes of hand; so that the 
 speculator found himself with half -built houses upon his 
 hands which he could neither let, nor finish, nor sell, 
 and owing money upon bills which he had expected to 
 meet by giving the bank a mortgage on the now value- 
 less property. 
 
 That is what took place in the majority of cases, and 
 it is not necessary to go into further details, though of 
 course chance played all the usual variations upon the 
 theine of ruin. 
 
 What distingiiishes the period of speculation in Eome 
 from most other manifestations of the kind in Europe is 
 the prominent part played in it by the old land-holding 
 families, a number of which were ruined in wild schemes 
 which no sensible man of business would have touched. 
 This was more or less the result of recent changes in the 
 laws regulating the power of persons making a will. 
 
 Previous to 1870 the. law of primogeniture was as much 
 respected in Eome as in England, and was carried out 
 with considerably greater strictness. The heir got every- 
 thing, the other children got practically nothing but the 
 smallest pittance. The palace, the gallery of pictures 
 and statues, the lands, the villages and the castles, de- 
 scended in unbroken succession from eldest son to eldest 
 son, indivisible in principle and undivided in fact. 
 
 The new law requires that one half of the total prop- 
 erty shall be equally distributed by the testator amongst 
 
DON ORSINO. 51 
 
 all his children. He may leave the other half to any 
 one he pleases, and as a matter of practice he of course 
 leaves it to his eldest son. 
 
 Another law, however, forbids the alienation of all 
 collections of works of art either wholly or in part, if 
 they have existed as such for a certain length of time, 
 and if the public has been admitted daily or on any fixed 
 days, to visit them. It is not in the power of the 
 Borghese, or the Colonna, for instance, to sell a picture 
 or a statue out of their galleries, nor to raise money 
 upon such an object by mortgage or otherwise. 
 
 Yet these works of art figure at a very high valuation 
 in the total property of which the testator must divide 
 one half amongst his children, though in point of fact 
 they yield no income whatever. But it is of no use to 
 divide them, since none of the heirs could be at liberty 
 to take them away nor realise their value in any manner. 
 
 The consequence is, that the principal heir, after the 
 division has taken place, finds himself the nominal mas- 
 ter of certain enormously valuable possessions, which in 
 reality yield him nothing or next to nothing. He also 
 foresees that in the next generation the same state of 
 things will exist in a far higher degree, and that the 
 position of the head of the family will go from bad to 
 worse until a crisis of some kind takes place. 
 
 Such a case has recently occurred. A certain Eoman 
 prince is bankrupt. The sale of his gallery would cer- 
 tainly relieve the pressure, and would possibly free him 
 from debt altogether. But neither he nor his creditors 
 can lay a finger upon the pictures, nor raise a centime 
 upon them. This man, therefore, is permanently reduced 
 to penury, and his creditors are large losers, while he 
 is still de jure and de facto the owner of property prob- 
 ably suificient to cover all his obligations. Fortunately, 
 he chances to be childless, a fact consoling, perhaps, to 
 the philanthropist, but not especially so to the sufferer 
 himself. 
 
 It is clear that the temptation to increase "distributa- 
 
52 DON ORSINO. 
 
 ble" property, if one may coin such an expression, is 
 very great, and accounts for the way in which many 
 Roman gentlemen have rushed headlong into specula- 
 tion, though possessing none of the qualities necessary 
 for success, and only one of the requisites, namely, a 
 certain amount of ready money, or free and convertible 
 property. A few have been fortunate, while the majority 
 of those who have tried the experiment have been heavy 
 losers. It cannot be said that any one of them all has 
 shown natural talent for finance. 
 
 Let the reader forgive these dry explanations if he can. 
 The facts explained have a direct bearing upon the story 
 I am telling, but shall not, as mere facts, be referred to 
 again. 
 
 I have already said that Ugo Del Ferice had returned 
 to Rome soon after the change, had established himself 
 with his wife. Donna TuUia, and was at the time I am 
 speaking about, deeply engaged in the speculations of 
 the day. He had once been tolerably popular in society, 
 having been looked upon as a harmless creature, useful 
 in his way and very obliging. But the circumstances 
 which had attended his flight some years earlier had be- 
 come known, and most of his old acquaintances turned 
 him the cold shoulder. He had expected this and was 
 neither disappointed nor humiliated. He had made new 
 friends and acquaintances during his exile, and it was to 
 his interest to stand by them. Like many of those who 
 had played petty and dishonourable parts in the revolu- 
 tionary times, he had succeeded in building up a reputa- 
 tion for patriotism upon a very slight foundation, and 
 had found persons willing to believe him a sufferer who 
 had escaped martyrdom for the cause, and had deserved 
 th§ crown of election to a constituency as a just reward 
 of his devotion. The Romans -cared very little what 
 became of him. The old Blacks confounded Victor 
 Emmanuel with Garibaldi, Cavour with Persiano, and 
 Silvio Pellico with Del Ferice in one sweeping condem- 
 nation, desiring nothing so much as never to hear the 
 
DON ORSINO. 53 
 
 hated names mentioned in their houses. The Grey party, 
 being also Eoman, disapproved of Ugo on general prin- 
 ciples and particularly because he had been a spy, but 
 the Whites, not being Romans at all and entertaining an 
 especial detestation for every distinctly Eoman opinion, 
 received him at his own estimation, as society receives 
 most people who live in good houses, give good dinners 
 and observe the proprieties in the matter of visiting- 
 cards. Those who knew anything definite of the man's 
 antecedents were mostly persons who had little histories 
 of their own, and they told no tales out of school. The 
 great personages who had once employed him would 
 have been magnanimous enough to acknowledge him in 
 any case, but were agreeably disappointed when they 
 discovered that he was not amongst the common herd of 
 pension hunters, and claimed no substantial rewards save 
 their politeness and a line in the visiting lists of their 
 wives. And as he grew in wealth and importance they 
 found that he could be useful still, as bank directors and 
 members of parliament can be, in a thousand ways. So 
 it came to pass that the Count and Countess Del Perice 
 became prominent persons in the Roman world. 
 
 Ugo was a man of undoubted talent. By his own in- 
 dividual efforts, though with small scruple as to the 
 means he employed, he had raised himself from obscurity 
 to a very enviable position. He had only once in his life 
 been carried away by the weakness of a personal enmity, 
 and he had been made to pay heavily for his caprice. If 
 Donna TuUia had abandoned him when he was driven 
 out of Rome by the influence of the Saracinesca, he 
 might have disappeared altogether from the scene. But 
 she was an odd compound of rashness and foresight, 
 of belief and unbelief, and she had at that time felt her- 
 self bound by an oath she dared not break, besides being 
 attached to him by a hatred of Giovanni Saracinesca 
 almost as great as his own. She had followed him and 
 had married him without hesitation ; but she had kept 
 the undivided possession of her fortune while allowing 
 
54 DON OBSINO. 
 
 him a liberal use of her income. In return, she claimed 
 a certain liberty of action when she chose to avail her- 
 self of it. She would not be bound in the choice of her 
 acquaintances nor criticised in the measure of like' or 
 dislike she bestowed upon them. She was by no means 
 wholly bad, and if she had a harmless fancy now and 
 then, she required her husband to treat her as above 
 suspicion. On the whole, the arrangement worked very 
 well. Del Ferice, on his part, was unswervingly faith- 
 ful to her in word and deed, for he exhibited in a high 
 degree that unfaltering constancy which is bred of a 
 permanent, unalienable, financial interest. Bad men are 
 often clever, but if their cleverness is of a superior order 
 they rarely do anything bad. It is true that when they 
 yield to the pressure of necessity their wickedness sur- 
 passes that of other men in the same degree as their in- 
 telligence. Not only honesty, but all virtue collectively, 
 is the best possible policy, provided that the politician 
 can handle such a tremendous engine of evil as goodness 
 is in the hands of a thoroughly bad man. 
 
 Those who desired pecuniary accommodation of the 
 bank in which Del Ferice had an interest, had no better 
 friend than he. His power with the directors seemed 
 to be as boundless as his desire to assist the borrower. 
 But he was helpless to prevent the foreclosure of a 
 mortgage, and had been moved almost to tears in the 
 expression of his sympathy with the debtor and of his 
 horror at the hard-heartedness shown by his partners. 
 To prove his disinterested spirit it only need be said that 
 on many occasions he had actually come forward as a 
 private individual and had taken over the mortgage him- 
 self, distinctly stating that he could not hold it for more 
 than a year, but expressing a hope that the debtor might 
 in that time retrieve himself. If this really happened, 
 he earned the man's eternal gratitude ; if not, he fore- 
 closed indeed, but the loser never forgot that by Del 
 Ferice's kindness he had been offered a last chance at 
 a desperate moment. It could not be said to be Del 
 
DON OKSINO. 55 
 
 Ferioe's fault that the second case was the more fre- 
 quent one, nor that the result to himself -was profit in 
 either event. 
 
 In his dealings with his constituency he showed a noble 
 desire for the public welfare, for he was never known to 
 refuse anything in reason to the electors who applied to 
 him. It is true that in the case of certain applications, 
 he consumed so much time in preliminary enquiries and 
 subsequent formalities that the applicants sometimes 
 died and sometimes emigrated to the Argentine Republic 
 before the matter could be settled; but they bore with 
 them to South America — or to the grave — ^the belief that 
 the Onorevole Del Ferice was on their side, and the 
 instances of his prompt, decisive and successful action 
 were many. He represented a small town in the 
 Neapolitan Province, and the benefits and advantages 
 he had obtained for it were numberless. The provincial 
 high road had been made to pass through it; all express 
 trains stopped at its station, though the passengers who 
 made use of the inestimable privilege did not average 
 twenty in the month; it possessed a Piazza Vittorio 
 Emmanuela, a Corso Garibaldi, a Via Cavour, a public 
 garden of at least a quarter of an acre, planted with no 
 less than twenty-five acacias and adorned by a fountain 
 representing a desperate-looking character in the act of 
 firing a finely executed revolver at an imaginary oppres- 
 sor. Pigs were not allowed within the limits of the 
 town, and the uniforms of the municipal brass band were 
 perfectly new. Could civilisation do more? The bank 
 of which Del Ferice was a director bought the octroi 
 duties of the town at the periodical auction, and farmed 
 them skilfully, together with those of many other towns 
 in the same province. 
 
 So Del Ferice was a very successful man, and it need 
 scarcely be said that he was now not only independent 
 of his wife's help but very much richer than she had 
 ever been. They lived in a highly decorated, detached 
 modern house in the new part of the city. 9?he gilded 
 
56 DON OESINO. 
 
 gate before the little plot of garden, bore their inter- 
 twined initials, surmounted by a modest count's coronet. 
 Donna Tullia would have preferred a coat of arms, or 
 even a crest, but Ugo was sensitive to ridicule, and he 
 was aware that a count's coronet in Kome means noth- 
 ing at all, whereas a coat of arms means vastly more 
 than in most cities. 
 
 Within, the dwelling was somewhat unpleasantly 
 gorgeous. Donna Tullia had always loved red, both for 
 itself and because it made her own complexion seem less 
 florid by contrast, and accordingly red satin predomi- 
 nated in the drawing-rooms, red velvet in the dining- 
 room, red damask in the hall and red carpets on the 
 stairs. Some fine specimens of gilding were also to be 
 seen, and Del Ferice had been one of the first to use 
 electric light. Everything was new, expensive and pol- 
 ished to its extreme capacity for reflection. The ser- 
 vants wore vivid liveries and on formal occasions the 
 butler appeared in short-clothes and black silk stockings. 
 Donna Tullia' s equipage was visible at a great distance, 
 but Del Perice's own coachman and groom wore dark 
 green with black epaulettes. 
 
 On the morning which Orsino and Madame d'Aragona 
 had spent in Gouache's studio the Countess Del Ferice 
 entered her husband's study in order to consult him 
 upon a rather delicate matter. He was alone, but busy as 
 usual. His attention was divided between an important 
 bank operation and a petition for his help in obtaining 
 a decoration for the mayor of the town he represented. 
 The claim to this distinction seemed to rest chiefly on 
 the petitioner's unasked evidence in regard to his own 
 moral rectitude, yet Del Ferice was really exercising all 
 his ingenuity to discover some suitable reason for asking 
 the favour. He laifi the papers down with a sigh as 
 Donna Tullia came in. 
 
 "Good morning, my angel," he said suavely, as he 
 pointed to a chair athis side — the one usually occupied 
 at this hour by seekers for financial support. "Have 
 you rested well?" 
 
DON OBSINO. 57 
 
 He never failed to ask the question. 
 
 "Not badly, not badly, thank Heaven!" answered 
 Donna Tullia. " I have a dreadful cold, of course, and 
 a headache — my head is really splitting." 
 
 " Eest — rest is what you need, my dear " 
 
 "Oh, it is nothing. This Durakoff is a great man. 
 If he had not made me go to Carlsbad — I really do not 
 know. But I have something to say to you. I want 
 your help, Ugo. Please listen to me." 
 
 Ugo's fat white face already expressed anxious atten- 
 tion. To accentuate the expression of his readiness to 
 listen, he now put all his papers into a drawer and turned 
 towards his wife. 
 
 "I must go to the Jubilee," said Donna Tullia, com- 
 ing to the point. 
 
 " Of course you must go " 
 
 "And I must have my seat among the Eoman ladies." 
 
 " Of course you must," repeated Del Ferice with a little 
 less alacrity. 
 
 "Ah! You see. It is not so easy. You know it is 
 not. Yet I have as good a right to my seat as any one — 
 better perhaps." 
 
 "Hardly that," observed Ugo with a smile. "When 
 you married me, my angel, you relinquished your 
 claims to a seat at the Vatican functions." 
 
 " I did nothing of the kind. I never said so, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " Perhaps if you could make that clear to the major- 
 duomo " 
 
 "Absurd, Ugo. You know it is. Besides, I will not 
 beg. You must get me the seat. You can do anything 
 with your influence." 
 
 " You could easily get into one of the diplomatic trib- 
 unes," observed Ugo. 
 
 " I will not go there. I mean to assert myself. I am 
 a Eoman lady and I will have my seat, and you must 
 get it for me." 
 
 " I will do my best. But I do not quite see where I 
 
58 DON ORSINO. 
 
 am to begin. It will need time and consideration and 
 much tact." 
 
 " It seems to me very simple. Go to one of the cleri- 
 cal deputies and say that you want the ticket for your 
 wife " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Give him to understand that you will vote for his 
 next measure. Nothing could be simpler, I am sure." 
 
 Del Ferice smiled blandly at his wife's ideas of parlia- 
 mentary diplomacy. 
 
 " There are no clerical deputies in the parliament of 
 the nation. If there were the thing might be possible, 
 and it would be very interesting to all the clericals to 
 read an account of the transaction in the Osservatore 
 Romano. In any case, I am not sure that it will he 
 much to our advantage that the wife of the Onorevole 
 Del Ferice should be seen seated in the midst of the 
 Black ladies. It will produce an unfavourable impres- 
 sion." 
 
 " If you are going to talk of impressions " Donna 
 
 TuUia shrugged her massive shoulders. 
 
 "No, my dear. You mistake me. I am not going to 
 talk of them, because, as I at once told you, it is quite 
 right that you should go to this affair. If you go, you 
 must go in the proper way. No doubt there will be 
 people who will have invitations but will not use them. 
 We can perhaps procure you the use of such a ticket." 
 
 " I do not care what name is on the paper, provided 
 I can sit in the right place." 
 
 "Very well," answered Del Ferice. "I will do my 
 best." 
 
 " I expect it of you, Ugo. It is not often that I ask 
 anything of you, is it? It is the least you can do. The 
 idea of getting a card that is not to be used is good; of 
 course they will all get them, and some of them are sure 
 to be ill." 
 
 Donna TuUia went away satisfied that what she 
 wanted would be forthcoming at the right moment. 
 
DON OESINO. 59 
 
 What she had said was true. She rarely asked anything 
 of her husband. But when she did, she gave him to 
 understand that she would have it at any price. It was 
 her way of asserting herself from time to time. On the 
 present occasion she had no especial interest at stake 
 and any other woman might have been satisfied with a 
 seat in the diplomatic tribune, which could probably 
 have been obtained without great di£B.culty. But she 
 had heard that the seats there were to be very high and 
 she did not really wish to be placed in too prominent a 
 position. The light might be unfavourable, and she 
 knew that she was subject to growing very red in places 
 where it was hot. She had once been a handsome woman 
 and a very vain one, but even her vanity could not sur- 
 vive the daily shock of the looking-glass torture. To 
 sit for four or five hours in a high light, facing fifty 
 thousand people, was more than she could bear with 
 equanimity. 
 
 Del Ferice, being left to himself, returned to the ques- 
 tion of the mayor's decoration which was of vastly 
 greater importance to him than his wife's position at the 
 approaching function. If he failed to get the man what 
 he wanted, the fellow would doubtless apply to some 
 one of the opposite party, would receive the coveted 
 honour and would take the whole voting population of 
 the town with him at the next general election, to the 
 total discomfiture of Del Ferice. It was necessary to 
 find some valid reason for proposing him for the dis- 
 tinction. Ugo could not decide what to do just then, 
 but he ultimately hit upon a successful plan. He ad- 
 vised his correspondent to write a pamphlet upon the 
 rapid improvement of agricultural interests in his district 
 under the existing ministry, and he even went so far as 
 to enclose with his letter some notes on the subject. 
 These notes proved to be so voluminous and complete 
 that when the mayor had copied them he could not find 
 a pretext for adding a single word or correction. They 
 were printed upon excellent paper, with ornamental mar- 
 
60 DON OESINO. 
 
 gins, Tinder the title of " Onward, Parthenope ! " Of 
 course every one knows that Parthenope means Naples, 
 the Neapolitans and the Neapolitan Province, a siren of 
 that name having come to final grief somewhere between 
 the Chiatamone and Posilippo. The mayor got his 
 decoration, and Del Terice was re-elected; but no one 
 has inquired into the truth of the statements made in 
 the pamphlet upon agriculture. 
 
 It is clear that a man who was capable of taking so 
 much trouble for so small a matter would not disappoint 
 his wife when she had set her heart upon such a trifle as 
 a ticket for the Jubilee. Within three days he had the 
 promise of what he wanted. A certain lonely lady of 
 high position lay very ill just then, and it need scarcely 
 be explained that her confidential servant fell upon the 
 invitation as soon as it arrived and sold it for a round 
 sum to the first applicant, who happened to be Count 
 Del Perice's valet. So the matter was arranged, pri- 
 vately and without scandal. 
 
 All Rome was alive with expectation. The date fixed 
 was the first of January, and as the day approached the 
 curious foreigner mustered in his thousands and tens of 
 thousands and took the city by storm. The hotels were 
 thronged. The billiard tables were let as furnished 
 rooms, people slept in the lifts, on the landings, in the 
 porters' lodges. The thrifty Romans retreated to roofs 
 and cellars and let their small dwellings. People reach- 
 ing the city on the last night slept in the cabs they had 
 hired to take them to St. Peter's before dawn. Even 
 the supplies of food ran low and the hungry fed on what 
 they could get, while the delicate of taste very often did 
 not feed at all. There was of course the usual scare 
 about a revolutionary demonstration, to which the 
 natives paid very little attention, but which delighted 
 the foreigners. 
 
 Not more than half of those who hoped to witness 
 the ceremony saw anything of it, though the basilica 
 will hold some eighty thousand people at a pinch, and 
 
DON ORSINO. 61 
 
 the crowd on that occasion was far greater than at the 
 opening of the CEcumenical Council in 1869. 
 
 Madame d'Aragona had also determined to be present, 
 and she expressed her desire to Gouache. She had 
 spoken the strict truth when she had said that she knew 
 no one in Rome, and so far as general accuracy is con- 
 cerned it was equally true that she had not fixed the 
 length of her stay. She had not come with any settled 
 purpose beyond a vague idea of having her portrait 
 painted by the French artist, and unless she took the 
 trouble to make acquaintances, there was nothing attrac- 
 tive enough about the capital to keep her. She allowed 
 herself to be driven about the town, on pretence of 
 seeing churches and galleries, but in reality she saw 
 very little of either. She was preoccupied with her own 
 thoughts and subject to fits of abstraction. Most things 
 seemed to her intensely dull, and the unhappy guide 
 who had been selected to accompany her on her excur- 
 sions, wasted his learning upon her on the first morning, 
 and subsequently exhausted the magnificent catalogue of 
 impossibilities which he had concocted for the especial , 
 benefit of the uncultivated foyeigner, without eliciting 
 so much as a look of interest orTan expression of surprise. 
 He was a young and fascinating guide, wearing a white 
 satin tie, and on the third day he recited some verses of 
 Stecchetti and was about to risk a declaration of worship 
 in ornate prose, when he was suddenly rather badly 
 scared by the lady's yellow eyes, and ran on nervously 
 with a string of deceased popes and their dates. 
 
 "Get me a card for the Jubilee," she said abruptly. 
 
 "An entrance is very easily procured," answered the 
 guide. " In fact 1 have one in my pocket, as it happens. 
 I bought it for twenty francs this morning, thinking that 
 one of my foreigners would perhaps take it of me. I do 
 not even gain a franc — my word of honour." 
 
 Madame d'Aragona glanced at the slip of paper. 
 
 "Not that," she answered. "Do you imagine that I 
 will stand? I want a seat in one of the tribunes." 
 
62 DON OESINO. 
 
 The guide lost himself in apologies, but explained that 
 he could not get what she desired. 
 
 "What are you for?" she inquired. 
 
 She was an indolent woman, but when by any chance 
 she 'wanted anything, Donna TuUia herself was not more 
 restless. She drove at once to Gouache's studio. He 
 was alone and she told him what she needed. 
 
 "The Jubilee, Madame? Is it possible that you have 
 been forgotten?" 
 
 " Since they have never heard of me ! I have not the 
 slightest claim to a place." 
 
 " It is you who say that. But your place is already 
 secured. Fear nothing. You will be with the Eoman 
 ladies." 
 
 " I do not understand " 
 
 "It is simple. I was thinking of it yesterday. 
 Young Saraeinesca comes in and begins to talk about 
 you. There is Madame d'Aragona who has no seat, he 
 says. One must arrange that. So it is arranged." 
 
 "By Don Orsino?" 
 
 "You would not accept? No. A young man, and 
 you have only met once. But tell me what you think of 
 him. Do you like him? " 
 
 "One does not like people so easily as that," said 
 Madame d'Aragona. "How have you arranged about 
 the seat?" 
 
 "It is very simple. There are to be two days, you 
 know. My wife has her cards for both, of course. She 
 will only go once. If you will accept the one for the 
 first day, she will be very happy. " 
 
 " You are angelic, my dear friend ! Then I go as your 
 wife? " She laughed. 
 
 "Precisely. You will be Faustina Gouache instead 
 of Madame d'Aragona." 
 
 " How delightful ! By the bye, do not call me Madame 
 d'Aragona. It is not my name. I might as well call 
 you Monsieur de Paris, because you are a Parisian." 
 
 "I do not put Anastase Gouache de Paris on my 
 
DON ORSINO. 63 
 
 cards," answered Gouache with a laugh. "What may 
 I call you? Donna Maria? " 
 
 "My name is Maria Consuelo d'Aranjuez." 
 
 "An alicient Spanish name," said Gouache. 
 
 "My husband was an Italian." 
 
 "Ah! Of Spanish descent, originally of Aragona. 
 Of course." 
 
 "Exactly. Since I am here, shall I sit for you? 
 You might almost finish to-day." 
 
 "Not so soon as that. It is Don Orsino's hour, but as 
 he has not come, and since you are so kind — by all 
 means." 
 
 " Ah ! Is he unpunctual ? " 
 
 " He is probably running after those abominable dogs 
 in pursuit of the feeble fox — what they call the noble 
 sport." 
 
 Gouache's face expressed considerable disgust.** 
 
 "Poor fellow! " said Maria Consuelo. "He has noth- 
 ing else to do." 
 
 " He will get used to it. They all do. Besides, it is 
 really the natural condition of man. Total idleness is 
 his element. If Providence meant man to work, it 
 should have given him two heads, one for his profession 
 and one for himself. A man needs one entire and un- 
 divided intelligence for the study of his own individu- 
 ality." 
 
 "What an idea!" 
 
 " Do not men of great genius notoriously forget them- 
 selves, forget to eat and drink and dress themselves like 
 Christians? That is because they have not two heads. 
 Providence expects a man to do two things at once — 
 sing an air from an opera and invent the steam-engine 
 at the same moment. Nature rebals. Then Providence 
 and Nature do not agree. What becomes of religion? 
 It is all a mystery. Believe me, Madame, art is easier 
 than nature, and painting is simpler than theology." 
 
 Maria Consuelo listened to *Gouache's extraordinary 
 remarks with a smile. 
 
64 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "You are either paradoxical, or irreligious, or both," 
 she said. 
 
 " Irreligious ? I, who carried a rifle at Mentana? No, 
 Madame, I am a good Catholic." 
 
 " What does that mean? " 
 
 " I believe in God, and I love my wife. I leave it to 
 the Church to define my other articles of belief. I have 
 "ijnly one head, as you see." 
 
 Gouache smiled, but there was a note of sincerity in 
 the odd statement which did not escape his hearer. 
 
 " You are not of the type which belongs to the end of 
 the century," she said. 
 
 " That type was not invented when I was forming my- 
 self." 
 
 "Perhaps you belong rather to the coming age — ^the 
 age of simplification." 
 
 "As distinguished from the age of mystification — 
 religious, political, scientific and artistic," suggested 
 Gouache. "The people of that day will guess the 
 Sphynx's riddle." 
 
 "Mine? You were comparing me to a sphynx the 
 other day." 
 
 "Yours, perhaps, Madame. Who knows? Are you 
 the typical woman of the ending century? " 
 
 "Why not?" asked Maria Consuelo with a sleepy 
 look. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 There is something grand in any great assembly of 
 animals belonging to the same race. The very idea of 
 an immense number of living creatures conveys an im- 
 pression not suggested by anything else. A compact 
 herd of fifty or sixty thousand lions would be an appal- 
 ling vision, beside which a like multitude of human 
 beings would sink into insignificance. A drove of wild 
 
DON ORSINO. 65 
 
 cattle is, I think, a finer sight than a regiment of cavalry 
 in motion, for the cavalry is composite, half man and 
 half horse, -whereas the cattle have the advantage of 
 unity. But we can never see so many animals of any 
 species driven together into one limited space as to be 
 equal to a vast throng of men and women, and we con- 
 clude naturally enough that a crowd consisting solely of 
 our own kind is the most imposing one conceivable. 
 
 It was scarcely light on the morning of New Year's 
 Day when the Princess Sant' Ilario found herself seated 
 in one of the low tribunes on the north side of the high 
 altar in Saint Peter's. Her husband and her eldest son 
 had accompanied her, and having placed her in a posi- 
 tion from which they judged she could easily escape 
 at the end of the ceremony, they remained standing in 
 the narrow, winding passage between improvised barri- 
 ers which led from the tribune to the door of the sac- 
 risty, and which had been so arranged as to prevent con- 
 fusion. Here they waited, greeting their acquaintances 
 when they could recognise them in the dim twilight of 
 the chiirch, and watching the ever-increasing crowd that 
 surged slowly backward and forward outside the barrier. 
 The old prince was entitled by an hereditary office to a 
 place in the great procession of the day, and was not now 
 with them. 
 
 Orsino felt as though the whole world were assembled 
 about him within the huge cathedral, as though its heart 
 were beating audibly and its mufiled breathing rising and 
 falling in his hearing. The unceasing sound that went 
 up from the compact mass of living beings was soft 
 in quality, but enormous in volume and sustained in 
 tone, a great whispering which might have been heard a 
 mile away. One hears in mammoth musical festivals the 
 extraordinary effect of four or five thousand voices sing- 
 ing very softly; it is not to be compared to the unceas- 
 ing whisper of fifty thousand men. 
 
 The young fellow was conscious of a strange, irregular 
 thrill of enthusiasm which ran through him from time 
 
66 DON ORSINO. 
 
 to time and startled his imagination into life. It was 
 only the instinct of a strong vitality unconsciously long- 
 ing to be the central point of the vitalities around it. 
 But he could not understand that. It seemed to him 
 like a great opportunity brought within reach but slip- 
 ping by untaken, not to return again. He felt a strange, 
 almost uncontrollable longing to spring upon one of the 
 tribunes, to raise Ms voice, to speak to the great multi- 
 tude, to fire all those men to break out and carry every- 
 thing before them. He laughed audibly at himself. 
 Sant' Ilario looked at his son with some curiosity. 
 
 "What amuses you?" he' asked. 
 
 "A dream," answered Orsino, still smiling. "Who 
 knows?" he exclaimed after a pause. "What would 
 happen, if at the right moment the right man could stir 
 such a crowd as this? " 
 
 "Strange things," replied Sant' Ilario gravely. "A 
 crowd is a terrible weapon." 
 
 " Then my dream was not so foolish after all. One 
 might make history to-day." 
 
 Sant' Ilario made a gesture expressive of indifEerencfe 
 
 "What is history?" he asked. "A comedy in which 
 the actors have no written parts, but improvise their 
 speeches and actions as best they can'. That is the rea- 
 son why history is so dull and so full of mistakes." 
 
 "And of surprises," suggested Orsino. 
 
 " The surprises in history are always disagreeable, my 
 boy," answered Sant' Ilario. 
 
 Orsino felt the coldness in the answer and felt even 
 more his father's readiness to damp any expression of 
 enthusiasm. Of late he had eiicountered this chilling 
 indifference at almost every turn, whenever he gave 
 vent to his admiration for any sort of activity. 
 
 It was not that Giovanni Saracinesea had any inten- 
 tion of repressing his son's energetic instincts, and he 
 assuredly had no idea of the effect his words often pro- 
 duced. He sometimes wondered at the sudden silence 
 which came over the young man after such conversations, 
 
DON OESINO. 67 
 
 but he did not understand it and on the whole paid little 
 attention to it. He remembered that he himself had been 
 different, and had been wont to argue hotly and not un- 
 frequently to quarrel with his father about trifles. He 
 himself had been headstrong, passionate, often intract- 
 able in his early youth, and his father had been no bet- 
 ter at sixty and was little improved in that respect even 
 at his present great age. But Orsino did not argue. 
 He suggested, and if any one disagreed with him he be- 
 came silent. He seemed to possess energy in action, 
 and a number of rather fantastic aspirations, but in con- 
 versation he was easily silenced and in outward manner 
 he would have seemed too yielding if he had not often 
 seemed too cold. 
 
 Giovanni did not see that Orsino was most like his 
 mother in character, while the contact with a new gen- 
 eration had given him something unfamiliar to the old, 
 an affectation at first, but one which habit was amalga- 
 mating with the real nature beneath. 
 
 No doubt, it was wise and right to discourage ideas 
 which would tend in any way to revolution. Giovanni 
 had seen revolutions and had been the loser by them. 
 It was not wise and was certainly not necessary to throw 
 cold water on the young fellow's harmless aspirations. 
 But Giovanni had lived for many years in his own way, 
 rich, respected and supremely happy, and he believed 
 that his way was good enough for Orsino. He had, in 
 his youth, tried most things for himself, and had found 
 them failures so far as happiness was concerned. Orsino 
 might make the series of experiments in his turn if he 
 pleased, but there was no adequate reason for such an 
 expenditure of energy. The sooner the boy loved some 
 girl who would make him a good wife, and the sooner 
 he married her, the sooner he would find that calm, 
 satisfactory existence which had not finally come to 
 Giovanni until after thirty years of age. 
 
 As for the question of fortune, it was true that there 
 were four sons, but there was Giovanni's mother's for- 
 
68 DON OESINO. 
 
 tune, there was Corona's f®rtune, and there was the 
 great Saracinesca estate behind both. They were all so 
 extremely rich that the deluge must be very distant. 
 
 Orsino understood none of these things; He only 
 realised that his father had the faculty and appar- 
 ently the intention of freezing any originality he chanced 
 to show, and he inwardly resented the coldness, quietly, 
 if foolishly, resolving to astonish those who misunder- 
 stood him by seizing the first opportunity of doing some- 
 thing out of the common way. Tor some time he stood 
 in silence watching the people who came by and glanc- 
 ing from time to time at the dense crowd outside the 
 barrier. He was suddenly aware that his father was 
 observing intently a lady who advanced along the open 
 way. 
 
 " There is Tullia Del Ferice ! " exclaimed Sant' Ilario 
 in surprise. 
 
 "I do not know her, except by sight," observed Orsino 
 indifferently. 
 
 The countess was very imposing in her black veil and 
 draperies. Her red face seemed to lose its colour in the 
 dim church and she affected a slow and stately manner 
 more becoming to her weight than was her natural rest- 
 less vivacity. She had got what she desired and she 
 swept proudly along to take her old place among the 
 ladies of Eome. No one knew whose card she had 
 delivered up at the entrance to the sacristy, and she en- 
 joyed the triumph of showing that the wife of the revo- 
 lutionary, the banker, the member of parliament, had 
 not lost caste after all. 
 
 She looked Giovanni full in the face with her dis- 
 agreeable blue eyes as she came up, apparently not mean- 
 ing to recognise him. Then, just as she passed him, she 
 deigned to make a very slight inclination of the head, 
 just enough to compel Sant' Ilario to return the saluta- 
 tion. It was very well done. Orsino did not know all 
 the details of the past events, but he knew that his 
 father had once wounded Del Feriee in a duel and he 
 
DON OESINO. 69 
 
 looked at Del Ferice's wife with some curiosity. He 
 had seldom had an opportunity of being so near to her. 
 
 "It was certainly not about her that they fought," 
 he reflected. "It must have been about some other 
 woman, if there was a woman in the question at all." 
 
 A moment later he was aware that a pair of tawny 
 eyes was fixed on him. Maria Consuelo was following 
 Donna Tullia at a distance of a dozen yards. Orsino 
 came forward and his new acquaintance held out her hand. 
 They had not met since they had first seen each other. 
 
 "It was so kind of you," she said. 
 
 "What, Madame?" 
 
 " To suggest this to Gouache. I should have had no 
 ticket — ^where shall I sit? " 
 
 Orsino did not understand, for though he had men- 
 tioned the subject. Gouache had not told him what he 
 meant to do. But there was no time to be lost in con- 
 versation. Orsino led her to the nearest opening in the 
 tribune and pointed to a seat. 
 
 " I called, " he said quickly. " You did not receive ' ' 
 
 "Come again, I will be at home," she answered in a 
 low voice, as she passed him. 
 
 She sat down in a vacant place beside Donna Tullia, 
 and Orsino noticed that his mother was just behind them 
 both. Corona had been watching him unconsciously, as 
 she often did, and was somewhat surprised to see him 
 conducting a lady whom she did not know. A glance 
 told her that the lady was a foreigner ; as such, if she 
 were present at all, she should have been in the diplo- 
 matic tribune. There was nothing to think of, and 
 Corona tried to solve the small social problem that pre- 
 sented itself. Orsino strolled back to his father's side. 
 
 "Who is she?" inquired Sant' Ilario with some curi- 
 osity. 
 
 "The lady who wanted the tiger's skin — Aranjuez — I 
 told you of her." 
 
 " The portrait you gave me was not flattering. She is 
 handsome, if not beautiful." 
 
70 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Did I say she was not?" asked Orsino with a visible 
 irritation most unlike him. 
 
 "I thought so. You said she had yellow eyes, red 
 hair and a squint." Sant' Ilario laughed. 
 
 " Perhaps I did. But the effect seems to be harmonious. " 
 
 "Decidedly so. You might have introduced me." 
 
 To this Orsino said nothing, but relapsed into a moody 
 silence. He would have liked nothing better than to 
 bring about the acquaintance, but he had only met Maria 
 Consuelo once, though that interview had been a long 
 one, and he remembered her rather short answer to his 
 offer of service in the way of making acquaintances. 
 
 Maria Consuelo on her part was quite unconscious that 
 she was sitting in front of the Princess Sant' Ilario, but 
 she had seen the lady by her side bow to Orsino's com- 
 panion in passing, and she guessed from a certain resem- 
 blance that the dark, middle-aged man might be young 
 Saracinesca's father. Donna TuUia had seen Corona well 
 enough, but as they had not spoken for nearly twenty 
 years she decided not to risk a nod where she could not 
 command an acknowledgment of it. So she pretended to 
 be quite unconscious of her old enemy's presence. 
 
 Donna TuUia, however, had noticed as she turned her 
 head in sitting down that Orsino was piloting a strange 
 lady to the tribune, and when the latter sat down beside 
 her, she determined to make her acquaintance, no matter 
 upon what pretext. The time was approaching at which 
 the procession was to make its appearance, and Donna 
 TuUia looked about for something upon which to open 
 the conversation, glancing from time to time at her 
 neighbour. It was easy to see that the place and the 
 surroundings were equally unfamiliar to the newcomer, 
 who looked with evident interest at the twisted columns 
 of the high altar, at the vast mosaics in the dome, at the 
 red damask hangings of the nave, at the Swiss guards, 
 the chamberlains in court dress and at all the mediaeval- 
 looking, motley figures that moved about within the 
 space kept open for the coming function. 
 
DON ORSINO. 71 
 
 " It is a wonderful sight," said Donna Tullia in French, 
 very softly, and almost as though speaking to herself. 
 
 "Wonderfiil indeed," answered Maria Consuelo, "es- 
 pecially to a stranger." 
 
 "Madame is a stranger, then," observed Donna Tullia 
 with an agreeable smile. 
 
 She looked into her neighbour's face and for the first 
 time realised that she was a striking person. 
 
 "Quite," replied the latter, briefly, and as though not 
 wishing to press the conversation. 
 
 "I fancied so," said Donna Tullia, "though on seeing 
 you in these seats, among us Romans " 
 
 "I received a card through the kindness of a friend." 
 
 There was a short pause, during which Donna Tullia 
 concluded that the friend must have been Orsino. But 
 the next remark threw her off the scent. 
 
 "It was his wife's ticket, I believe," said Maria Con- 
 suelo. " She could not come. I am here on false pre- 
 tences." She smiled carelessly. 
 
 Donna Tullia lost herself in speculation, but failed to 
 solve the problem. 
 
 " You have chosen a most favourable moment for your 
 first visit to Eome, " she remarked at last. 
 
 "Yes. I am always fortunate. I believe I have seen 
 everything worth seeing ever since I was a little girl." 
 
 " She is somebody, " thought Donna Tullia. " Probably 
 the wife of a diplomatist, though. Those people see 
 everything, and talk of nothing but what they have 
 seen." 
 
 "This is historic," she said aloud. "You will have a 
 chance of contemplating the Romans in their glory. 
 Colonna and Orsini marching side by side, and old Sara- 
 cinesca in all his magnificence. He is eighty-two year 
 old." 
 
 " Saracinesca? " repeated Maria Consuelo, turning her 
 tawny eyes upon her neighbour. 
 
 "Yes. The father of Sant' Ilario— grandfather of 
 that young fellow who showed you to your seat. " 
 
72 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Don Orsino? Yes, I know him slightly." 
 
 Corona, sitting immediately behind them heard her 
 son's name. As the two ladies turned towards each 
 other in conversation she heard distinctly what they 
 said. Donna Tullia was of course aware of this. 
 
 "Do you?" she asked. "His father is a most esti- 
 mable man — just a little too estimable, if you under- 
 stand! As for the boy " 
 
 Donna Tullia moved her broad shoulders expressively. 
 It was a habit of which even the irreproachable Del 
 Feriee could not cure her. Corona's face darkened. 
 
 "You can hardly call him a boy," observed Maria 
 Consuelo with a smile. 
 
 "Ah well — I might have been his mother," Donna 
 Tullia answered with a contempt for the affectation of 
 youth which she rarely showed. But Corona began to 
 understand that the conversation was meant for her 
 ears, and grew angry by degrees. Donna Tullia had 
 indeed been near to marrying Giovanni, and in that 
 sense, too, she might have been Orsino's mother. 
 
 "I fancied you spoke rather disparagingly," said 
 Maria Consuelo with a certain degree of interest. 
 
 "I? No indeed. On the contrary, Don Orsino is a 
 very fine fellow — but thrown away, positively thrown 
 away in his present surroundings. Of what use is all 
 this English education — ^but you are a stranger, Madame, 
 you cannot understand our Eoman point of view." 
 
 "If you could explain it to me, I might, perhaps," 
 suggested the other. 
 
 "Ah yes — if I could explain it! But I am far too 
 ignorant myself — no, ignorant is not the word — too pre- 
 judiced, perhaps, to make you see it quite as it is. Per- 
 haps I am a little too liberal, and the Saracinesca are 
 certainly far too conservative. They mistake education 
 for progress. Poor Don Orsino, I am sorry for him." 
 
 Donna Tullia found no other escape from the diffi- 
 culty into which she had thrown herself. 
 
 "I did not know that he was to be pitied," said Maria 
 Consuelo. 
 
DON OESINO. 73 
 
 "Oh, not he in particular, perhaps," answered the 
 stout countess, growing more and more vague. " They 
 are all to be pitied, you know. What is to become of 
 young men brought up in that way? The club, the turf, 
 the card-table — to drink, to gamble, to bet, it is not an 
 existence ! " 
 
 "Do you mean that Don Orsino leads that sort of 
 life?" inquired Maria Consuelo indifferently. 
 
 Again Donna Tullia's heavy shoulders moved con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "What else is there for him to do?" 
 
 "And his father r Did he not do likewise in his 
 youth? " 
 
 " His father? Ah, he was different — before he married 
 — full of life, activity, originality ! " 
 
 "And since his marriage?" 
 
 "He has become estimable, most estimable." The 
 smile with which Donna TuUia accompanied the state- 
 ment was intended to be fine, but was only spiteful. 
 Maria Consuelo, who saw everything with her sleepy 
 glance, noticed the fact. 
 
 Corona was disgusted, and leaned back in her seat, as 
 far as possible, in order not to hear more. She could 
 not help wondering who the strange lady might be to 
 whom Donna Tullia was so freely expressing her opin- 
 ions concerning the Saracinesca, and she determined to 
 ask Orsino after the ceremony. But she wished to hear 
 as little more as she could. 
 
 " When a married man becomes what you call estima- 
 ble," said Donna Tullia's companion, "he either adores 
 his wife or hates her. " 
 
 " What a charming idea!" laughed the countess. It 
 was tolerably evident that the remark was beyond her. 
 
 " She is stupid," thought Maria Consuelo. " I fancied 
 so from the first. I will ask Don Orsino about her. 
 He will say something amusing. It will be a subject of 
 conversation at all events, in place of that endless tiger 
 I invented the other day. I wonder whether this woman 
 
74 DON OKSINO. 
 
 expects me to tell her who I am? That will amount to 
 an acquaintance. She is certainly somebody, or she 
 would not be here. On the other hand, she seems to 
 dislike the only man I know besides Gouache. That 
 may lead to complications. Let us talk of G-ouache first,_ 
 and be guided by circumstances." 
 
 "Do you know Monsieur Gouache?" she inquired, 
 abruptly. 
 
 "The painter? Yes — I have known him a long time. 
 Is he perhaps painting your portrait? " 
 
 " Exactly. It is really for that purpose that I am in 
 Rome. What a charming man ! " 
 
 "Do you think so? Perhaps he is. He painted me 
 sorae time ago. I was not very well satisfied. But he 
 has talent." 
 
 Donna TuUia had never forgiven the artist for not 
 putting enough soul into the picture he had painted of 
 her when she was a very young widow. 
 
 "He has a great reputation," said Maria Consuelo, 
 " and I think he will succeed very well with me. Be- 
 sides, I am grateful to him. He and his painting have 
 >vbeen a pleasant episode in my short stay here." 
 
 " Really, I should hardly have thought you could find 
 it worth your while to come all the way to Rome to be 
 painted by Gouache," observed Donna TuUia. "But of 
 course, as I say, he has talent." 
 
 "This woman is rich," she said to herself. "The 
 wives of diplomatists do not allow themselves such 
 caprices, as a rule. I wonder who she is? " 
 
 " Great talent, " assented Maria Consuelo. " And great 
 charm, I think." 
 
 "Ah well — of course — I daresay. We Romans can- 
 not help thinking that for an artist he is a little too 
 much occupied in being a gentleman — and for a gentle- 
 man he is quite too much an artist." 
 
 The remark was not original with Donna TuUia, but 
 had been reported to her as Spicca's, and Spicca had 
 really said something similar about somebody else. 
 
DON OESINO. 75 
 
 "I had not got that impression," said Maria Consuelo, 
 quietly. 
 
 "She hates him, too," she thought. "She seems to 
 hate everybody. That either means that she knows 
 everybody, or is not received in society." 
 
 "But of course you know him better than I do," she 
 added aloud, after a little pause. 
 
 At that moment a strain of music broke out above the 
 great, soft, muffled whispering that filled the basilica. 
 Some thirty chosen voices of the choir of Saint Peter's 
 had begun the hymn "Tu es Petrus," as the procession 
 began to defile from the south aisle into the nave, close 
 by the great door, to traverse the whole distance thence 
 to the high altar. The Pope's own choir, consisting 
 solely of the singers of the Sixtine Chapel, waited 
 silently behind the lattice under the statue of Saint 
 Veronica. 
 
 The song rang out louder and louder, simple and grand. 
 Those who have heard Italian singers at their best know 
 that thirty young Roman throats can emit a volume of 
 sound equal to that which a hundred men of any other 
 nation could produce. The stillness around them in- 
 creased, too, as the procession lengthened. The great, 
 dark crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, breathless with 
 expectation, each man and woman feeling for a few 
 short moments that thrill of mysterious anxiety and im- 
 patience which Orsino had felt. No one who was there 
 can ever forget what followed. More than forty cardi- 
 nals filed out in front from the Chapel of the Pieta. 
 Then the hereditary assistants of the Holy See, the 
 heads of the Colonna and the Orsini houses, entered the 
 nave, side by side for the first time, I believe, in history. 
 Immediately after them, high above all the procession 
 and the crowd, appeared the great chair of state, the huge 
 white feathered fans moving slowly on each side, and 
 upon the throne, the central figure of that vast display, 
 sat the Pope, Leo the Thirteenth. 
 
 Then, without warning and without hesitation, a shout 
 
76 DON OESINO. 
 
 went up such as has never been heard before in that dim 
 cathedral, nor will, perhaps, be heard again. 
 
 " Viva a Papa-Bi; ! Long life to the Pope-King ! " 
 
 At the same instant, as though at a preconcerted signal 
 — ^utterly impossible in such a throng — in the twinkling 
 of an eye, the dark crowd was as white as snow. In 
 every hand a white handkerchief was raised, fluttering 
 and waving above every head. 
 
 And the shout once taken up, drowned the strong 
 voices of the singers as long-drawn thunder drowns the 
 pattering of the raindrops and the sighing of the wind. 
 
 The wonderful face, that seemed to be carved out of 
 transparent alabaster, smiled and slowly turned from 
 side to side as it passed by. The thin, fragile hand 
 moved unceasingly, blessing the people. 
 
 Orsino Saracinesca saw and heard, and his young face 
 turned pale while his lips set themselves. By his side, 
 a head shorter than he, stood his father, lost in thought 
 as he gazed at the mighty spectacle of what had been, 
 and of what might still have been, but for one day of 
 history's surprises. 
 
 Orsino said nothing, but he glanced at Sant' Ilario's 
 face as though to remind his father of what he had said 
 half an hour earlier ; and the elder man knew that there 
 had been truth in the boy's words. There were soldiers 
 in the church, and they were not Italian soldiers — some 
 thousands of them in all, perhaps. They were armed, 
 and there were at the very least computation thirty 
 thousand strong, grown men in the crowd. And the 
 crowd was on fire. Had there been a hundred, nay a 
 score, of desperate, devoted leaders there, who knows 
 what bloody work might not have been done in the city 
 before the sun went down? Who knows what new sur- 
 prises history might have found for her play? The 
 thought must have crossed many minds at that moment. 
 But no one stirred; the religious ceremony remained a 
 religious ceremony and nothing more ; holy peace reigned 
 within the walls, and the hour of peril glided away un- 
 disturbed to take its place among memories of good. 
 
DON OESINO. 77 
 
 "The world is worn out!" thought Orsino. "The 
 days of great deeds are over. Let us eat and drink, for ' 
 to-morrow we die — ^they are right in teaching me their 
 philosophy." 
 
 A gloomy, sullen melancholy took hold of the boy's 
 young nature, a passing mood, perhaps, but one which 
 left its mark upon him. For he was at that age Avhen a 
 very little thing will turn the balance of a character, 
 when an older man's thoughtless words may direct half 
 a lifetime in a good or evil channel, being recalled and 
 repeated for a score of years. Who is it that does not 
 remember that day when an impatient "I will," or a 
 defiant "I will not," turned the whole current of his 
 existence in the one direction or the other, towards good 
 or evil, or towards success or failure? Who, that has 
 fought his way against odds into the front rank, has for- 
 gotten the woman's look that gave him courage, or the 
 man's sneer that braced nerve and muscle to strike the 
 first of many hard blows? 
 
 The depression which fell upon Orsino was lasting, 
 for that morning at least. The stupendous pageant went 
 on before him, the choirs sang, the sweet boys' voices 
 answered back, like an angel's song, out of the lofty 
 dome, the incense rose in columns through the streaming 
 sunlight as the high mass proceeded. Again the Pope 
 was raised upon the chair and borne out into the nave, 
 whence in the solemn silence the thin, clear, aged voice 
 intoned the benediction three times, slowly rising and 
 falling, pausing and beginning again. Once more the 
 enormous shout broke out, louder and deeper than ever, 
 as the procession moved away. Then all was over. 
 
 Orsino' saw and heard, but the first impression was 
 gone, and the thrill did not come back. 
 
 "It was a fine sight," he said to his father, as the 
 shout died away. 
 
 "A fine sight? Have you no stronger expression than 
 that?" 
 
 "No," answered Orsino, "I have not." 
 
78 DON OKSINO. 
 
 The ladies were already coming out of the tribunes, 
 and Orsino saw his father give his arm to Corona to 
 lead her through the crowd. Naturally enough, Maria 
 Consuelo and Donna TuUia came out together very soon 
 after her. Orsino offered to pilot the former through the 
 confusion, and she accepted gratefully. Donna Tullia 
 walked beside them. 
 
 "You do not know me, Don Orsino," said she with a 
 gracious smile. 
 
 " I beg your pardon — you are the Countess Del Ferice 
 — I have not been back from England long, and have not 
 had an opportunity of being presented." 
 
 Whatever might be Orsino's weaknesses, shyness was 
 certainly not one of them, and as he made the civil an- 
 swer he calmly looked at Donna Tullia as though to 
 inquire what in the world she wished to accomplish in 
 making his acquaintance. He had been so situated dur- 
 ing the ceremony as not to see that the two ladies had 
 fallen into conversation. 
 
 "Will you introduce me?" said Maria Consuelo. 
 "We have been talking together." 
 
 She spoke in a low voice, but the words could hardly 
 have escaped Donna Tullia. Orsino was very much sur- 
 prised and not by any means pleased, for he saw that the 
 elder woman had forced the introduction by a rather 
 vulgar trick. Nevertheless, he could not escape. 
 
 " Since you have been good enough to recognise me," he 
 said rather stiffly to Donna Tullia, " permit me to make 
 you acquainted with Madame d'Aranjuez d'Aragona." 
 
 Both ladies nodded and smiled the smile of the newly 
 introduced. Donna Tullia at once began to wonder how 
 it was that a person with such a name should have but 
 a pFain " Madame " to put before it. But her curiosity 
 was not satisfied on this occasion. 
 
 " How absurd society is ! " she exclaimed. " Madame 
 d'Aranjuez and I have been talking all the morning, 
 quite like old friends — and now we need an introduc- 
 tion!" 
 
DON ORSLNO. 79 
 
 Maria Consuelo glanced at Orsino as though expecting 
 him to make some remark. But he said nothing. 
 
 "What should we do without conventions! " she said, 
 for the sake of saying something. 
 
 By this time they were threading the endless passages 
 of the sacristy building, on their way to the Piazza Santa 
 Marta. Sant' Ilario and Corona were not far in front of 
 them. At a turn in the corridor Corona looked back. 
 
 "There is Orsino talking to TuUia Del Ferice!" she 
 exclaimed in great surprise. " And he has given his arm 
 to that other lady who was next to her in the tribune." 
 
 "What does it matter? " asked Sant' Ilario indiffer- 
 ently. "By the bye, the other lady is that Madame 
 d'Aranjuez he talks about." 
 
 "Is she any relation of your mother's family, 
 Giovanni? " 
 
 "Not that I am aware of. She may have married 
 some younger son of whom I never heard." 
 
 "You do not seem to care whom Orsino knows," said 
 Corona rather reproachfully. 
 
 " Orsino is grown up, dear. You must not forget that. " 
 
 " Yes — I suppose he is, " Corona answered with a little 
 sigh. " But surely you will not encourage him to culti- 
 vate the Del Ferice ! " 
 
 " I fancy it would take a deal of encouragement to drive 
 him to that," said Sant' Ilario with a laugh. "He has 
 better taiste." 
 
 There was some confusion outside. People were wait- 
 ing for their carriages, and as most of them knew each 
 other intimately every one was talking at once. Donna 
 TuUia nodded here and there", but Maria Consuelo noticed 
 that her salutations were coldly returned. Orsino and 
 his two companions stood a little aloof from the crowd. 
 Just then the Saracinesca carriage drove up. 
 
 "Who is that magnificent woman?" asked Maria 
 Consuelo, as Corona got in. 
 
 "My mother," said Orsino. "My father is getting in 
 
80 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "There comes my carriage! Please help me." 
 
 A modest hired brougham made its appearance. Orsino 
 hoped that Madame d'Aranjuez would offer him a seat. 
 But he was mistaken. 
 
 "I am afraid mine is miles away," said Donna TuUia. 
 " Good-bye, I shall be so glad if you will come and see 
 me." She held out her hand. 
 
 "May I not take you home?" asked Maria Consuelo. 
 " There is just room — it will be better than waiting here." 
 
 Donna TuUia hesitated a moment, and then accepted, 
 to Orsino's great annoyance. He helped the two ladies 
 to get in, and shut the door. 
 
 "Come soon," said Maria Consuelo, giving him her 
 hand out of the window. 
 
 He was inclined to be angry, but the look that accom- 
 panied the invitation did its work satisfactorily. 
 
 " He is very young, " thought Maria Consuelo, as she 
 drove away. 
 
 "She can be very amusing. It is worth while," said 
 Orsino to himself as he passed in front of the next car- 
 riage, and walked out upon the small square. 
 
 He had not gone far, hindered as he was at every step, 
 when some one touched his arm. It was Spicca, looking 
 more cadaverous and exhausted than usual. 
 
 " Are you going home in a cab?" he asked. "Then 
 let us go together. " 
 
 They got out of the square, scarcely knowing how they 
 had accomplished the feat. Spicca seemed nervous as 
 well as tired, and he leaned on Orsino's arm. 
 
 "There was a chance lost this morning," said the latter 
 when they were under the colonnade. He felt sure of 
 a bitter answer from the keen old man. 
 
 " Why did you not seize it then? " asked Spicca. " Do 
 you expect old men like me to stand up and yell for a 
 republic, or a restoration, or a monarchy, or whichever 
 of the other seven plagues of Egypt you desire? I have 
 not voice enough left to call a cab, much less to howl 
 down a kingdom." 
 
DON ORSINO. 81 
 
 "I wonder what would have happened, if I, or some 
 one else, had tried." 
 
 " You would have spent the night in prison with a few 
 kindred spirits. After all, that would have been better 
 than making love to old Donna TuUia and her young 
 friend." 
 
 Orsino laughed. 
 
 "You have good eyes," he said. 
 
 "So have you, Orsino. Use them. You will see 
 something odd if you look where you were looking this 
 morning. Do you know what sort of a place this world 
 is?" 
 
 "It is a dull place. I have found that out already." 
 
 "You are mistaken. It is hell. Do you mind calling 
 that cab? " 
 
 Orsino stared a moment at his companion, and then 
 hailed the passing conveyance. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Orsino had shown less anxiety to see Madame d'Aran- 
 juez than might perhaps have been expected. In the 
 ten days which had elapsed between the sitting at 
 Gouache's studio and the first of January he had only 
 once made an attempt to find her at home, and that at- 
 tempt had failed. He had not even seen her passing in 
 the street, and he had not been conscious of any uncon- 
 trollable desire to catch a glimpse of her at any price. 
 
 But he had not forgotten her existence as he would 
 certainly have forgotten that of a wholly indifferent 
 person in the same iiime. On the contrary, he had 
 thought of her frequently and had indulged in many 
 speculations concerning her, wondering among other 
 matters why he did not take more trouble to see her since 
 she occupied his thoughts so much. He did not know 
 
82 DON OESINO. 
 
 that he was in reality hesitating, for he would not have 
 acknowledged to himself that he could be in danger of 
 falling seriously in love. He was too young to admit 
 such a possibility, and the character which he admired 
 and meant to assume was altogether too cold and superior 
 to such weaknesses. To do him justice, he was really 
 not of the sort to fall in love at first sight. Persons 
 -capable of a self-imposed dualism rarely are, for the 
 second nature they build up on the foundation of their 
 own is never wholly artificial. The disposition to cer- 
 tain modes of thought and habits of bearing is really 
 present, as is sufficiently proved by their admiration of 
 both. Very shy persons, for instance, invariably admire 
 very self-possessed ones, and in trying to imitate them 
 occasionally exhibit a cold-blooded arrogance which is 
 amazing. Timothy Titmouse secretly looks u.p to Don 
 Juan as his ideal, and after half a lifetime of failure 
 outdoes his model, to the horror of his friends. Diony- 
 sus masks as Hercules, and the fox is sometimes not 
 unsuccessful in his saint's disguise. Those who have 
 been intimate with a great actor know that the charac- 
 ters he plays best are not all assumed; there is a little 
 of each in his own nature. There is a touch of the real 
 Othello in Salvini — there is perhaps a strain of the 
 melancholy Scandinavian in English Irving. 
 
 To be short, Orsino Saracinesca was too enthusiastic to 
 be wholly cold, and too thoughtful to be thoroughly 
 enthusiastic. He saw things differently according to his 
 moods, and being dissatisfied, he tried to make one mood 
 prevail constantly over the other. In a mean nature 
 the double view often makes an untruthful individual; 
 in one possessing honourable instincts it frequently leads 
 to unhappiness. Affectation then becomes , aspiration 
 and the man's failure to impose on others is forgotten in 
 his misery at failing to impose upon himself. 
 
 The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria 
 Gonsuelo on the morning of the great ceremony recalled 
 vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with her ten days 
 
DON ORSINO. 83 
 
 earlier, and he determined to see her as soon as possible. 
 He was out of conceit with himself and consequently 
 with all those who knew him, and he looked forward 
 with pleasure to the conversation of an attractive woman 
 who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and 
 who could take him at his own estimate. He was curi- 
 ous, too, to find out something more definite in regard to 
 her. She was mysterious, and the mystery pleased him. 
 She had admitted that her deceased husband had spoken 
 of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not 
 discover where the relationship lay. Spicca's very odd 
 remark, too, seemed to point to her, in some way which 
 Orsino could not understand, and he remembered her 
 having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her husband 
 had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but 
 she had given no clue to her own nationality, and she 
 did not look Spanish, in spite of her name, Maria Con- 
 . suelo. As no one in Eome knew her it was impossible 
 to get any information whatever. It was all very inter- 
 esting. 
 
 Accoidingly, late on the afternoon of the second of 
 January, Orsino called and was led to the door of a small 
 sitting-room on the second floor of the hotel. The ser- 
 vant shut the door behind him and Orsino found him- 
 self alone. A lamp with a pretty shade was burning on 
 the table and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained 
 a few flowers, common roses, but fresh and fragrant. 
 Two or three new books in yellow paper covers lay scat- 
 tered upon the hideous velvet table cloth, and beside one 
 of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper cutter of 
 chiselled silver, bearing a large monogram done in 
 brilliants and rubies. The thing contrasted oddly with 
 its surroundings and attracted the light. An easy chair 
 was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered 
 with perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco 
 cushion, of the kind used in travelling, was balanced on 
 the back, and there was a depression in it, as though 
 some one's head had lately rested there. 
 
84 DON OESINO. 
 
 Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for 
 Madame d'Aranjuez to appear, and they were not with- 
 out interest to him, for each one told a story, and the 
 stories were contradictory. The room was not encum- 
 bered with those numberless objects which most women 
 scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel. 
 Yet Madame d'Aranjuez must have been at least a 
 month in Eome. The room smelt neither of perfume 
 nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, 
 and a little of the lamp, which was much worse. The 
 lady's only possessions seemed to be three books, a 
 travelling cushion and a somewhat too gorgeous paper 
 cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He 
 glanced at the books ; they were of the latest, and only 
 one had been cut. The cushion might have been bought 
 that morning. Not a breath had tarnished the polished 
 blade of the silver knife. 
 
 A door opened softly and Orsino drew himself up as 
 some one pushed in the heavy, vivid curtains. But it 
 was not Madame d'Aranjuez. A small dark woman of 
 middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black 
 hair, came forward a step. 
 
 "The signora will come presently," she said in Italian, 
 in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of 
 hearing herself speak. 
 
 She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had 
 come. This was evidently the silent maid of whom 
 Gouache had spoken. The few words she had spoken 
 had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian 
 from the north, for she had the unmistakable accent of 
 the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible 
 only by themselves. 
 
 Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the 
 message could hardly have been sent without an object. 
 But another minute had not elapsed before Maria Con- 
 suelo herself appeared. In the soft lamplight her clear 
 white skin looked very pale and her auburn hair almost 
 red. She wore one of those nondescript garments which 
 
DON ORSINO. 85 
 
 we liave elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had 
 learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin gram- 
 mar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real. 
 The colours produced no impression upon him whatever. 
 As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in 
 various shades of olive. 
 
 Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her 
 hand, but said nothing. She did not even smile, and 
 Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate 
 moment for his visit. 
 
 "It was very good of you to let mp come," he said, 
 waiting for her to sit down. 
 
 Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco 
 cushion carefully in the particular position which would 
 be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a 
 little, which, of course, produced no change whatever 'in 
 the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half 
 across the table and at last sat down in the easy chair. 
 Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee. 
 He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or 
 whether she might not be one of those people who are 
 painfully shy when there is no third person present. 
 
 " I think it was very good of you to come, " she said at 
 last, when she was comfortably settled. 
 
 "I wish goodness were always so easy," answered 
 Orsino with alacrity. 
 
 "Is it your ambition to be good?" asked Maria Con- 
 suelo with a smile. 
 
 "It should be. But it is not a career." 
 
 " Then you do not believe in Saints ? " 
 
 "Not until they are canonised and made articles of 
 belief — ^unless you are one, Madame." 
 
 "I have thought of trying it," answered Maria Con- 
 suelo, calmly. "Saintship is a career, even in society, 
 whatever you may say to the contrary. It has attrac- 
 tions, after all." 
 
 "JiTot equal to those of the other side. Every one 
 admits that. The majority is evidently in favour of sin, 
 
86 DOK ORSIKO. 
 
 and if we are to believe in modern institutions, we must 
 believe that majorities are right." 
 
 " Then the hero is always wrong, for he is the enthu- 
 siastic individual who is always for facing odds, and if 
 no one disagrees with him he is very unhappy. Yet 
 there are heroes " 
 
 " Where? " asked Orsino. " The heroes people talk of 
 ride bronze horses on inaccessible pedestals. When the 
 bell rings for a revolution they are all knocked down and 
 new ones are set up in their places — also executed by 
 the best artists — and the old ones are cast into cannon 
 to knock to pieces the ideas they invented. That is 
 called history." 
 
 "You take a cheerful and encouraging view of the 
 world's history, Don Orsino." 
 
 " The world is made for us, and we must accept it. 
 But we may criticise it. There is nothing to the con- 
 trary in the contract." 
 
 "In the social contract? Are you going to talk to me 
 about Jean-Jacques?" 
 
 "Have you read him, Madame?" 
 
 " ' No woman who respects herself ' " began Maria 
 
 Consuelo, quoting the famous preface. 
 
 "I see that you have," said Orsino, with a laugh. "I 
 have not." 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 To Orsino's surprise, Madame d'Aranjuez blushed. 
 He could not have told why he was pleased, nor why her 
 change of colour seemed so unexpected. 
 
 "Speaking of history," he said, after a very slight 
 pause, " why did you thank me yesterday for having got 
 you a card?" 
 
 "Did you not speak to Gouache about it?" 
 
 "I said something — I forget what. Did he manage 
 it?" 
 
 " Of course. I had his wife's place. She could not 
 go. Do you dislike being thanked for your good offices? 
 Are you so modest as that? " 
 
DON OESINO. 87 
 
 "Not in the least, but I hate misunderstandings, 
 though I will get all the credit I can for what I have 
 not done, like other people. When I saw that you knew 
 the Del Ferice, I thought that perhaps she had been exert- 
 ing herself." 
 
 "Why do you hate her so?" asked Maria Consuelo. 
 
 " I do not hate her. She does not exist — ^that is all. " 
 
 "Why does she not exist, as you call it? She is a 
 very good-natured woman. Tell me the truth. Every- 
 body hates her — I saw that by the way they bowed to 
 her while we were waiting — why? There must be a rea- 
 son. Is she a — an incorrect person?" 
 
 Orsino laughed. 
 
 " No. That is the point at which existence is more 
 likely to begin than to end." 
 
 " How cynical you are ! I do not like that. Tell me 
 about Madame Del Ferice." 
 
 " Very well. To begin with, she is a relation of mine." 
 
 " Seriously? " 
 
 " Seriously. Of course that gives me a right to handle 
 the whole dictionary of abuse against her." 
 
 " Of course. Are you going to do that? " 
 
 "No. You would call me cynical. I do not like you 
 to call me by bad names, Madame." 
 
 "I had an idea that men liked it," observed Maria 
 Consuelo gravely. 
 
 "One does not like to hear disagreeable truths." 
 
 "Then it is the truth? Go on. You have forgotten 
 what we were talking about." 
 
 " Not at all. Donna Tullia, my second, third or fourth 
 cousin, was married once upon a time to a certain 
 Mayer." 
 
 " And left him. How interesting ! " 
 
 " No, Madame. He left her — very suddenly, I believe 
 —for another world. Better or worse? Who can say? 
 Considering his past life, worse, I suppose; but consid- 
 ering that he was not obliged to take Donna Tullia 
 with him, decidedly better." 
 
88 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "You certainly hate her. Then she married Del 
 Terice." 
 
 "Then she married Del Feriee— before I was born. 
 She is fabulously old. Mayer left her very rich, and 
 without conditions. Del Ferice was an impossible per- 
 son. My father nearly killed him in a duel once — also 
 before I was born. I never knew what it was about. 
 Del Ferice was a spy, in the old days when spies got a 
 living in a Eome " 
 
 " Ah ! I see it all now ! " exclaimed Maria Consuelo. 
 "Del Ferice is white, and you are black. Of course you 
 hate each other. You need not tell me any more." 
 
 " How you take that for granted ! " 
 
 "Is it not perfectly clear? Do not talk to me of like 
 and dislike when your dreadful parties have anything to 
 do with either! Besides, if I had any sympathy with 
 either side it would be for the whites. But the whole 
 thing is absurd, complicated, mediaeval, feudal — any- 
 thing you like except sensible. Your intolerance is^ 
 intolerable." 
 
 "True tolerance should tolerate even intolerance," 
 observed Orsino smartly. 
 
 " That sounds like one of the puzzles of pronunciation 
 like 'in un piatto poco cupo poco pepe pisto cape,'" 
 laughed Maria Consuelo. " Tolerably tolerable tolerance 
 tolerates tolerable tolerance intolerably " 
 
 "You speak Italian?" asked Orsino, surprised by her 
 glib enunciation of the diflScult sentence she had quoted. 
 " Why are we talking a foreign language? " 
 
 "I cannot really speak Italian. I have an Italian 
 maid, who speaks French. But she taught me that 
 puzzle." 
 
 " It is odd — your maid is a Piedmontese and you have 
 a good accent." 
 
 "Have I? I am very glad. But tell me, is it not 
 absurd that you should hate these people as you do — you 
 cannot deny it — merely because they are whites?" 
 
 "Everything in life is absurd if you take the opposite 
 
DON OESINO. 89 
 
 point of view. Lunatics find endless amusement in 
 watching sane people." 
 
 "And of course, you are the sane people," observed 
 Maria Consuelo. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "What becomes of me? I suppose I do not exist? 
 You would not be rude enough to class me with the 
 lunatics." 
 
 " Certainly not. You will of course choose to be a black. " 
 
 "In order to be discontented, as you are?" 
 
 "Discontented?" 
 
 "Yes. Are you not utterly out of sympathy with 
 your surroundings? Are you not hampered at every step 
 by a network of traditions which have no meaning to 
 your intelligence, but which are laid on you like a har- 
 ness upon a horse, and in which you are driven your 
 daily little round of tiresome amusement — or dissipation? 
 Do you not hate the Corso as an omnibus horse hates it? 
 Do you not really hate the very faces of all those people 
 who effectually prevent you from using your own intelli- 
 gence, your own strength — your own heart? One sees it 
 in your face. You are too young to be tired of life. 
 No, I am not going to call you a boy, though I aAi older 
 than you, Don Orsino. You will find people enough in 
 your own surroundings to call you a boy — ^because you 
 are not yet so utterly tamed and wearied as they are, 
 and for no other reason. You are a man. I do not 
 know your age, but you do not talk as boys do. You 
 are a man — then be a man altogether, be independent — 
 use your hands for something better than throwing mud 
 at other people's houses merely because they are new ! " 
 
 Orsino looked at her in astonishment. This was cer- 
 tainly not the sort of conversation he had anticipated 
 when he had entered the room. 
 
 "You are surprised because I speak like this," she said 
 after a short pause. " You are a Saracinesca and I am 
 — a stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow, whom you 
 will probably never see again. It is amusing, is it not? 
 Why do you not laugh? " 
 
90 DON OKSINO. 
 
 Maria Consuelo smiled and as usual her strong red lips 
 closed as soon as she had finished speaking, a habit which 
 lent the smile something unusual, half-mysterious, and 
 self-contained. 
 
 "I see nothing to laugh at," answered Orsino. "Did 
 the mythological personage whose name I have for- 
 gotten laugh when the sphynx proposed the riddle to 
 him?" 
 
 " That is the third time within the last few days that 
 I have been compared to a sphynx by you or Gouache. 
 It lacks originality in the end." 
 
 "I was not thinking of being original. I was too 
 much interested. Your riddle is the problem of my 
 life." 
 
 " The resemblance ceases there. I cannot eat you up 
 if you do not guess the answer — or if you do not take 
 my advice. I am not prepared to go so far as that." 
 
 "Was it advice? It sounded more like a question." 
 
 " I would not ask one when I am sure of getting no 
 answer. Besides, I do not like being laughed at." 
 
 " What has that to do with the matter? Why imagine 
 anything so impossible?" 
 
 "After all — perhaps it is more foolish to say, 'I 
 advise you to do so and so,' than to ask, 'Why do you 
 not do so and so? ' Advice is always disagreeable and 
 the adviser is always more or less ridiculous. Advice 
 brings its own punishment." 
 
 "Is that not cynical?" asked Orsino. 
 
 "No. Why? What is the worst thing you can do to 
 your social enemy? Prevail upon him to give you his 
 counsel, act upon it — it will of course turn out badly — 
 then say, ' I feared this would happen, but as you ad- 
 vised me I did not like ' and so on ! That is simple 
 
 and always effectual. Try it." 
 
 "Not for worlds!" 
 
 "I did not mean with me," answered Maria Consuelo 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " No. I am afraid there are other reasons which will 
 
DON OBSLNO. 91 
 
 prevent me from making a career for myself," said 
 Orsino thoughtfully. 
 
 Maria Consuelo saw by his face that the subject was 
 a serious one with him, as she had already guessed that 
 it must be, and one which would always interest him. 
 She therefore let it drop, keeping it in reserve in case 
 the conversation flagged. 
 
 "I am going to see Madame Del Eerice to-morrow," 
 she observed, changing the subject. 
 
 "Do you think that is necessary?" 
 
 "Since I wish it! I have not your reasons for 
 avoiding her." 
 
 "I offended you the other day, Madame, did I not? 
 You remember — when I offered my services in a social 
 way." 
 
 "N'o — you amused me,"- answered Maria Consuelo 
 coolly, and watching to see how he would take the re- 
 buke. 
 
 But, young as Orsino was, he was a match for her in 
 self-possession. 
 
 "I am very glad," he answered without a trace of an- 
 noyance. "I feared you were displeased." 
 
 Maria Consuelo smiled again, and her momentary 
 coldness vanished. The answer delighted her, and did 
 more to interest her in Orsino than fifty clever sayings 
 could have done. She resolved to push the question a 
 little further. 
 
 "I will be frank," she said. 
 
 "It is always best," answered Orsino, beginning to 
 suspect that something very tortuous was coming. His 
 disbelief in phrases of the kind, though originally arti- 
 ficial, was becoming profound. 
 
 "Yes, I will be quite frank," she repeated. "You do 
 not wish me to know the Del Ferice and their set, and 
 you do wish me to know the people you like." 
 
 "Evidently." 
 
 "Why should I not do as I please?" 
 
 She was clearly trying to entrap him into a foolish 
 answer, and be grew more and more wary. 
 
92 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "It would be very strange if you did not," answered 
 Orsino without hesitation. 
 
 "Why, again?" 
 
 "Because you are absolutely iree to make your own 
 choice." 
 
 " And if my choice does not meet with your approval? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "What can I say, Madame? I and my friends will 
 be the losers, not you." 
 
 Orsino had kept his temper admirably, and he did not 
 suffer a hasty word to escape his lips nor a shadow of 
 irritation to appear in his face. Yet she had pressed 
 him in a way which was little short of rude. She was 
 silent for a few seconds, during which Orsino watched 
 her face as she turned it slightly away from him and 
 from the lamp. In reality he was wondering why she 
 was not more communicative about herself, and speculat- 
 ing as to whether her silence in that quarter proceeded 
 from the consciousness of a perfectly assured position in 
 the world, or from the fact that she had something to 
 conceal ; and this idea led him to congratulate hiftiself 
 upon not having been obliged to act immediately upon 
 his first proposal by bringing about an acquaintance be- 
 tween Madame d'Aranjuez and his mother. This un- 
 certainty lent a spice of interest to the acquaintance. 
 He knew enough of the world already to be sure that 
 Maria Consuelo was born and bred in that state of life 
 to which it has pleased Providence to call the social 
 elect. But the peculiar people sometimes do strange 
 things and afterwards establish themselves in foreign 
 cities where their doings are not likely to be known for 
 some time. Not that Orsino cared what this particular 
 stranger's past might have been. But he knew that his 
 mother would care very much indeed, if Orsino wished 
 her to know the mysterious lady, and would sift the 
 matter very thoroughly before asking her to the Palazzo 
 Saracinesca. Donna TuUia, on the other hand, had com- 
 mitted, herself to the acquaintance on her own responsi- 
 
DON OBSINO. 93 
 
 bility, evidently taking it for granted that if Orsino 
 knew Madame d'Aranjuez, the latter must be socially 
 irreproachable. It amused Orsino to imagine the fat 
 countess's rage if she turned out to have made a mistake. 
 
 "I shall be the loser too," said Maria Consuelo, in a 
 different tone, " if I make a bad choice. But I cannot 
 draw back. I took her to her house in my carriage. 
 
 She seemed to take a fancy to me " she laughed a 
 
 little. 
 
 Orsino smiled as though to imply that the circum- 
 stance did not surprise him. 
 
 "And she said she would come to see me. As a 
 stranger I could not do less than insist upon making the 
 first visit, and I named the day — or rather she did. I 
 am going to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow? Tuesday is her day. You will meet all 
 her friends." 
 
 " Do you mean to say_that people still have days in 
 Eome?" Maria Consuelo did not look pleased. 
 
 " Some people do — very few. Most people prefer to 
 be at home one evening in the week." 
 
 " What sort of people are Madame Del Ferice's friends ? " 
 
 "Excellent people." 
 
 " Why are you so cautious ? " 
 
 "Because you are about to be one of them, Madame." 
 
 "Am I? No, I will not begin another catechism! 
 You are too clever — I shall never get a direct answer 
 from you." 
 
 "Not in that way," answered Orsino with a frankness 
 that made his companion smile. 
 
 "How then?" 
 
 " I think you would know how, " he replied gravely, 
 and he fixed his young black eyes on her with an expres- 
 sion that made her half close her own. 
 
 "I should think you would make a good actor," she 
 said softly. 
 
 " Provided that I might be allowed to be sincere be- 
 tween the acts." 
 
94 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "That sounds well. A little ambiguous perhaps. 
 Your sincerity might or might not take the same direc- 
 tion as the part you had been acting." 
 
 " That would depend entirely upon yourself, Madame." 
 
 This time Maria Consuelo opened her eyes instead of 
 closing them. 
 
 "You do not lack — what shall I say? A certain as- 
 surance — ^you do not waste time ! " 
 
 She laughed merrily, and Orsino laughed with her. 
 
 " We are between the acts now, " he said. " The cur- 
 tain goes up to-morrow, and you join the enemy." 
 
 "Come with me, then." 
 
 "In your carriage? I shall be enchanted." 
 
 " No. You know I do not mean that. Come with me 
 to the enemy's camp. It will be very amusing." 
 
 Orsino shook his head. 
 
 " I would rather die — if possible at your feet, Madame." 
 
 "Are you afraid to call upon Madame Del Ferice?" 
 
 "More than of death itself." 
 
 "How can you say that? " 
 
 "The conditions of the life to come are doubtful — 
 there might be a chance for me. There is no doubt at 
 all as to what would happen if I went to see Madame 
 Del Ferice." 
 
 "Is your father so severe with you?" asked Maria 
 Consuelo with a little scorn. 
 
 "Alas, Madame, I am not sensitive to ridicule," an- 
 swered Orsino, quite unmoved. " I grant that there is 
 something wanting in my character." 
 
 Maria Consuelo had hoped to find a weak point, and 
 had failed, though indeed there were many in the young 
 man's armour. She was a little annoyed, both at her 
 own lack of judgment and because it would have amused 
 her to see Orsino in an element so unfamiliar to him as 
 that in which Donna TuUia lived. 
 
 " And there is nothing which would induce you to go 
 there? " she asked. 
 
 "At present — nothing," Orsino answered coldly. 
 
DON ORSINO. 95 
 
 " At present — but in the future of all possible possibil- 
 ities?" 
 
 " I shall undoubtedly go there. It is only the unfore- 
 seen which invariably happens." 
 
 "I think so too." 
 
 " Of course. I will illustrate the proverb by bidding 
 you good evening," said Orsino, laughing as he rose. 
 " By this time the conviction must have formed itself in 
 your mind that I was never going. The unforeseen hap- 
 pens. I go." 
 
 Maria Consuelo would have been glad if he had stayed 
 even longer, for he amused her and interested her, and 
 she did not look forward with pleasure to the lonely 
 evening she was to spend in the hotel. 
 
 " I am generally at home at this hour, " she said, giv- 
 ing him her hand. 
 
 "Then, if you will allow me? Thanks. Good even- 
 ing, Madame." 
 
 Their eyes met for a moment, and then Orsino left the 
 room. As he lit his cigarette in the porch of the hotel, 
 he said to himself that he had not wasted his hour, and 
 he was pleasantly conscious of that inward and spiritual 
 satisfaction which every very young man feels when he 
 is aware of having appeared at his best in the society of 
 a woman alone. Youth without vanity is only prema-/ 
 ture old age after all. 
 
 "She is certainly more than pretty," he said to him- 
 self, affecting to be critical when he was indeed con- 
 vinced. " Her mouth is fabulous, but it is well shaped 
 and the rest is perfect— no, the nose is insignificant, and 
 one of those yellow eyes wanders a little. These are not 
 perfections. But what does it matter? The whole 
 is charming, whatever the parts may be. I wish she 
 would not go to that horrible fat woman's tea to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Such were the observations which Orsino thought fit 
 to make to himself, but which by no means represented 
 all that he felt, for they took no notice whatever of that 
 
96 DON OESINO. 
 
 extreme satisfaction , at having talked well with Maria 
 Consuelo, which in reality dominated every other sensa- 
 tion just then. He was well enough accustomed to con- 
 sideration, though his only taste of society had been 
 enjoyed during the winter vacations of the last two 
 years. He was not the greatest match in the Eoman 
 matrimonial market for nothing, and he was perfectly 
 well aware of his advantages in this respect. He 
 possessed that keen, business-like appreciation of his 
 value as a marriageable man which seems to characterise 
 the young generation of to-day, and he Vas not mistaken 
 in his estimate. It was made sufficiently clear to him 
 at every turn that he had but to ask in order to receive. 
 But he had not the slightest intention of marrying at one 
 and twenty as several of his old school-fellows were 
 doing, and he was sensible enough to foresee that his 
 position as a desirable son-in-law would soon cause him 
 more annoyance than amusement. 
 
 Madame d'Aranjuez was doubtless aware that she 
 could not marry him if she wished to do so. She was 
 several years older than he — he admitted the fact rather 
 reluctantly — she was a widow, and she seemed to have 
 no particular social position. These were excellent 
 reasons against matrimony, but they were also equally 
 excellent reasons for being pleased with himself at hav- 
 ing produced a favourable impression on her. 
 
 He walked rapidly along the crowded street, glancing 
 carelessly at the people who passed and at the brilliantly 
 lighted windows of the shops. He passed the door of 
 the club, where he was already becoming known for 
 rather reckless plaj', and he quite forgot that a number 
 of men were probably spending an hour at the tables 
 before dinner, a fact which would hardly have escaped* 
 his memory if he had not been more than usually occu- 
 pied with pleasant thoughts. He did not need the ex- 
 citement of baccarat nor the stimulus of brandy and 
 soda, for his brain was already both excited and stimu- 
 lated, though he was not at once aware of it. But it be- 
 
DON ORSINO. 97 
 
 came clear to him when he suddenly found himself 
 standing before the steps of the Capitol in the gloomy- 
 square of the Ara Cceli, wondering what in the world 
 had brought him so far out of his way. 
 
 " What a fool I am ! " he exclaimed impatiently, as he 
 turned back and walked in the direction of his home. 
 " And yet she told me that I would make a good actor. 
 They say that an actor should never be carried away by 
 his part." 
 
 At dinner that evening he was alternately talkative 
 and very silent. 
 
 "Where have you been to-day, Orsino?" asked his 
 father, looking at him curiously. 
 
 " I spent half an hour with Madame d' Aranjuez, and 
 then went for a walk," answered Orsino with sudden in- 
 difference. 
 
 "What is she like?" asked Corona. 
 
 "Clever — at least in Rome." There was an odd, 
 nervous sharpness about the answer. 
 
 Old Saracinesca raised his keen eyes without lifting 
 " his head and looked hard at his grandson. He was a 
 little bent in his great old age. 
 
 " The boy is in love ! " he exclaimed abruptly, and a 
 laugh that was still deep and ringing followed the words. 
 Orsino recovered his self-possession and smiled carelessly. 
 
 Corona was thoughtful during the remainder of the 
 meal. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Princess Sant' Ilario's early life had been deeply 
 stirred by the great makers of human character, sorrow 
 and happiness. She had suffered profoundly, she had 
 borne her trials with a rare courage, and her reward, if 
 one may call it so, had been very great. She had seen 
 the world and known it well, and the knowledge had not 
 
 H 
 
98 DON OESINO. 
 
 been forgotten in the peaceful prosperity, of later years. 
 Gifted with a beauty not equalled, perhaps, in those 
 times, endowed with a strong and passionate nature 
 under a singularly cold and calm outward manner, she ' 
 had been saved from many dangers by the rarest of com- 
 monplace qualities, common sense. She had never passed 
 for an intellectual person, she had never been very 
 brilliant in conversation, she had even been thought old- 
 fashioned in her prejudices concerning the books she 
 read. But her judgment had rarely failed her at critical 
 moments. Once only, she remembered having committed 
 a great mistake, of which the sudden and unexpected con- 
 sequences had almost wrecked her life. But in that case 
 she had suffered her heart to lead her, an innocent girl's 
 good name had been at stake, and she had rashly taken a 
 responsibility too heavy for love itself to bear. Those 
 days were long past now; twenty years separated Corona, 
 the mother of four tall sons, from the Corona who had 
 risked all to save poor little Faustina Montevarchi. 
 
 But even she knew that a state of such perpetual and 
 unclouded happiness could hardly last a lifetime, and 
 she had forced herself, almost laughing at the thought, 
 to look forward to the day when Orsino must cease to 
 be a boy and must face the world of strong loves and 
 hates through which most men have to pass, and which 
 all m^n must have known in_ordeEJto bajjoen jndged. 
 
 The people whose lives are full of the most romantic 
 incidents, are not generally, I think, people of romantic 
 disposition. Komance, like power, will come uncajled 
 for, and those who seek it most, are often those who find 
 it least. And the reason is simple enough. The man of 
 heart is not perpetually burrowing i in his surroundings 
 for affections upon which his heart may feed, any more 
 than the very strong man is naturally impelled to lift 
 every weight he sees or to fight with every man he 
 meets. The persons whom others call romantic are 
 rarely conscious of being so. They are generally far too 
 much occupied with the one great thought which makes 
 
DON OESINO. 99 
 
 their strongest, bravfest and meanest actions seem per- 
 fectly commonplace to themselves. Corona Del Carmine, 
 who had heroioally sacrificed herself in her earliest girl- 
 hood to save her father from ruin and who a fe:w years 
 later had risked a prJQglesg happiness to shield a foolish 
 girl, had not in her whole life been conscious of a single 
 romantic instinct. Brave, devoted, but unimaginative 
 by nature, she had followed her heart's direction in most 
 worldly matters. 
 
 She was amazed to find that she was becoming roman- 
 tic now, in her dreams for Orsino's future. All sorts pf. 
 ideas which she would have laughed at in her own youth 
 fiitted through her brain from morning till night. Her 
 fancy built up a life for her eldest son, which she knew 
 to be far from the possibility of realisation, but which 
 had for her a new and strange attraction. 
 
 She planned for him the most unimaginable happi- 
 ness, of a kind which would perhaps have ha^-dly satis- 
 fied his more modern instincts. She saw a maiden of 
 indescribable beauty, brought up in unapproachable per- 
 fections, guarded by the all but insuperable jealousy of 
 an ideal home. Orsino was to love this vision, and none 
 other, from the first meeting to the term of his natural 
 life, and was to win her in the face of difiiculties such 
 as would have made even Giovanni, the incomparable, 
 look grave. This radiant creature was also to love 
 Orsino, as a matter of course, with a love vastly more 
 angelic than human, but not hastily nor thoughtlessly, 
 lest Orsino should get her too easily and not value her 
 as he ought. Then she saw the two betrothed, side by 
 side on shady lawns and moonlit terraces, in a perfectly 
 beautiful intimacy such as they would certainly never 
 enjoy in the existing conditions of their own society. 
 But that mattered little. The wooing, the winning and 
 the marrying of the exquisite girl were to make up 
 Orsino's life, and fifty or sixty yea.rs of idyllic happi- 
 ness were to be the reward of their mutual devotion. 
 Had she not spent twenty such years herself? Then 
 why should not all the rest be possible? 
 
100 DON OESINO. 
 
 The dreams came and went and she was too sensible 
 not to laugh at them. That was not the youth of 
 Giovanni, her husband, nor of men who even faintly 
 resembled him in her estimation. Giovanni had wan- 
 dered far, had seen much, and had undoubtedly indulged 
 more than one passing affection, before he had been 
 thirty years of age and had loved Corona. Giovanni 
 would laugh too, if she told him of her vision of two 
 young and beautiful married saints. And his laugh 
 would be more sincere than her own. Nevertheless/ her 
 dreams haunted her, as they have haunted many a lov- 
 ing mother, ever since Althaea plucked from the flame 
 the burning brand that measured Meleager's life, and 
 smothered the sparks upon it and hid it away among her 
 treasures. 
 
 Such things seem foolish, no doubt, in the measure of 
 fact, in the glaring light of our day. The thought is 
 none the less noble. The dream of an untainted love, 
 the vision of unspotted youth and pure maiden, the glory 
 of unbroken faith kept whole by man and wife in holy 
 wedlock, the pride of stainless name and stainless race 
 — these things are not less high because there is a sub- 
 limity in the strength of a great sin which may lie the 
 closer to our sympathy, as the sinning is the nearer to 
 our weakness. 
 
 When old Saracinesca looked up from under his bushy 
 brows and laughed and said that his grandson was in 
 love, he thought no more of what he said than if he had 
 remarked that Orsino's beard was growing or that Gio- 
 vanni's was turning grey. But Corona's pretty fancies 
 received a shock from which they never recovered again, 
 and though she did her best to call them back they lost 
 all their reality from that hour. The plain fact that at 
 one and twenty years the boy is a man, though a very 
 young one, was made suddenly clear to her, and she was 
 faced by another fact still more destructive of her ideals, 
 namely, that a man is not to be kept from falling in love, 
 when and where he is so inclined, by any personal in- 
 
DON ORSINO. 101 
 
 fluence whatsoever. She knew that well enough, and 
 the supposition that his first young passion might be 
 for Madame d'Aranjuez was by no means comforting. 
 Corona immediately felt an interest in that lady which 
 she had not felt before and which was not altogether 
 friendly. 
 
 It seemed to her necessary in the first place to find out 
 something definite concerning Maria Consuelo, and this 
 was no easy matter. She communicated her wish to her 
 husband when they were alone that evening. 
 
 "I know nothing about her," answered Giovanni. 
 " And I do not know any one who does. After all it is 
 of very little importance." 
 
 "What if he falls seriously in love with this woman? " 
 
 " We will send him round the world. At his age that 
 will cure anything. When he comes back Madame 
 d'Aranjuez will have retired to the chaos of the un- 
 known out of which Orsino has evolved her." 
 
 " She does not look the kind of woman to disappear at 
 the right moment," observed Corona doubtfully. 
 
 Giovanni was at that moment supremely comfortable, 
 both in mind and body. It was late. The old prince 
 had gone to his own quarters, the boys were in bed, and 
 Orsino was presumably at a party or at the club. Sant' 
 Ilario was enjoying the delight of spending an hour 
 alone in his wife's society. They were in Corona's old 
 boudoir, a place full of associations for them both. He 
 did not want to be mentally disturbed. He said nothing 
 in answer to his wife's remark. She repeated it in a 
 different form. 
 
 "Women like her do not disappear when one does not 
 want them," she said. 
 
 "What makes you think so? " inquired Giovanni with 
 a man's irritating indolence when he does not mean to 
 grasp a disagreeable idea. 
 
 "I know it," Corona answered, resting her chin upon 
 her hand and staring at the fire. 
 
 Giovanni surrendered unconditionally. 
 
102 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "You are probably right, dear. You always are about 
 people." 
 
 " Well — then you must see the importance of what I 
 say," said Corona pushing her victory. 
 
 "Of course, of course," answered Giovanni, squinting 
 at the iiames with one eye between his outstretched 
 fingers. 
 
 " I wish you would wake up ! " exclaimed Corona, 
 taking the hand in hers and drawing it to her. " Orsino 
 is probably making love to Madame d'Aranjuez at this 
 very moment." 
 
 " Then I will imitate him, and make love to you, my 
 dear. I could not be better occupied, and you know it. 
 You used to say I-did it very well." 
 
 Corona la,ughed in her deep, soft voice. 
 
 " Orsino is like you. That is what frightens me. He 
 will make love too well. Be serious, Giovanni. Think 
 of what I am saying." 
 
 "Let us dismiss the question then, for the simple 
 reason that there is absolutely nothing to be done. We 
 cannot turn this good woman out of Eome, and we can- 
 not lock Orsino up in his room. To tell a boy not to 
 bestow his affections in a certain quarter is like ramming 
 a charge into a gun and then expecting that it will not 
 come out by the same way. The harder you ram it 
 down the more noise it makes — that is all. Encourage 
 him and he may possibly tire of it. Hinder him and he 
 will become inconveniently heroic." 
 
 " I suppose that is true, " said Corona. " Then at least 
 find out "who the woman is, " she added, after a pause. 
 
 "I will try," Giovanni answered. "I will even go to 
 the length of spending an hour a day at the club, if that 
 will do any good- — and you know how I detest clubs. 
 But if anything whatever is known of her, it will be 
 known there." 
 
 Giovanni kept his word and expended more energy in 
 attempting to find out something about Madame d'Aran- 
 juez during the next few days than he had devoted to 
 
DON ORSINO. 103 
 
 anything connected with society for a long time. Nearly 
 a week elapsed before his efforts met with any success. 
 
 He was in the club one afternoon at an early hour, 
 reading the papers, and not more than three or four 
 other men were present. Among them were Frangipani 
 and Montevarchi, who was formerly known as Ascanio 
 Bellegra. There was also a certain young foreigner, a 
 diplomatist, who, like Sant' Ilario, was reading a paper, 
 most probably in search of an idea for the next visit on 
 his list. 
 
 Giovanni suddenly came upon a description of a din- 
 ner and reception given by Del Ferice and his wife. 
 The paragraph was written in the usual ilorid style with 
 a fine generosity in the distribution of titles to unknown 
 persons. 
 
 "The centre of all attraction," said the reporter, "was 
 a most beautiful Spanish princess, Donna Maria Consuelo 
 d'A z d'A a, in whose mysterious eyes are re- 
 flected the divine fires of a thousand triumphs, and who 
 was gracefully attired in olive green brocade " 
 
 "Oh! Is that it?" said Sant' Ilario aloud, and in the 
 peculiar tone always used by a man who makes a dis- 
 covery in a daily paper. 
 
 "What is it?" inquired Frangipani and Montevarchi 
 in the same breath. The young diplomatist looked up 
 with an air of interrogation. 
 
 Sant' Ilario read the paragraph aloud. All three 
 listened as though the fate of empires depended on the 
 facts reported. 
 
 " Just like the newspapers ! " exclaimed Frangipani. 
 "There probably -is no such person. Is there, As- 
 canio? " 
 
 Montevarchi had always been a weak fellow, and was 
 reported to be at present very deep in the building 
 speculations of the day. But there was one point upon 
 which he justly prided himself. He was a superior 
 authority on genealogy. It was his passion and no one 
 ^ever^isputed his knowledge or decision. He stroked 
 
104 DON ORSINO. 
 
 his fair beard, looked out of the window, winked„>is 
 pale blue eyes once or twice and then gave his verdict. 
 
 "There is no such person," he said gravely. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, prince," said the young diploma- 
 tist, "I have met her. She exists." 
 
 "My dear friend," answered Montevarchi, "I do not 
 doubt the existence of the woman, as such, and I would 
 certainly not think of disagreeing with you, even if I 
 had the slightest ground for doing so, which, I hasten 
 to say, I have not. Nor, of course, if she is a friend of 
 yours, would I like to say more on the subject. But I 
 have taken some little interest in genealogy and I have 
 a modest library — about two thousand volumes, only — 
 consisting solely of works on the subject, all of which I 
 have read and many of which I have carefully annotated. 
 I need not say that they are all at your disposal if you 
 should desire to make any researches." 
 
 Montevarchi had much of his murdered father's man- 
 ner, without the old man's strength. The young secre- 
 tary of embassy was rather startled at the idea of 
 searching through two thousand volumes in pursuit of 
 Madame d'Aranjuez's identity. Sant' Ilario laughed. 
 
 " I only mean that I have met the lady, " said the young 
 man. " Of course you are right. I have no idea who 
 she may really be. I have heard odd stories about her." 
 
 " Oh — ^have you? " asked Sant' Ilario with renewed 
 interest. 
 
 " Yes, very odd." He paused and looked round the 
 room to assure himself that no one else was present. 
 " There are two distinct stories about her. The first is 
 this. They say that she is a South American prima 
 donna, who sang only a few months, at Eio de Janeiro 
 and then at Buenos Ayres. An Italian who had gone 
 out there and made a fortune married her from the stage. 
 In coming to Europe, he unfortunately fell overboard 
 and she inherited all his money. People say that she 
 was the only person who witnessed the accident. The 
 man's name was Aragno. She twisted it once asi^made 
 
DON OESINO. 106 
 
 Aranjuez of it, and she turned it again and discovered 
 that it spelled Aragona. That is the first story. It 
 sounds well at all events." 
 
 "Very," said Sant' Ilario, with a laugh. 
 
 "A profoundly interesting page in genealogy, if she 
 happens to marry somebody," observed Montevarchi, 
 mentally noting all the facts. 
 
 "What is the other story?" asked Frangipani. 
 
 "The other story is much less concise and detailed. 
 According to this version, she is the daughter of a cer- 
 tain royal personage and of a Polish countess. There is 
 always a Polish countess in those stories ! She was never 
 married. The royal personage has had her educated in 
 a convent and has sent her out into the wide world with 
 a pretty fancy name of his own invention, plentifully 
 supplied with money and regular documents referring to 
 her union with the imaginary Aranjuez, and protected 
 by a sort of body-guard of mutes and duennas who never 
 appear in public. She is of course to make a great 
 match for herself, and has come to Eome to do it. That 
 is also a pretty tale." 
 
 "More interesting than the other," said Montevarchi. 
 " These side lights of genealogy, these stray rivulets of 
 royal races, if I may so poetically call them, possess an 
 absorbing interest for the student. I will make a note 
 of it." 
 
 " Of course, I do not vouch for the truth of a single 
 word in either story," observed the young man. "Of 
 the two the first is the less improbable. I have met her 
 and talked to her and she is certainly not less than five 
 and twenty years old. She may be more. In any case 
 she is too old to have been just let out of a convent." 
 
 "Perhaps she has been loose for some years," observed 
 Sant' Ilario, speaking of her as though she were a dan- 
 gerous wild animal. 
 
 "We should have heard of her," objected the other. 
 " She has the sort of personality which is noticed any- 
 where and which makes itself felt." 
 
106 DON OESINO. 
 
 " Then you incline to the belief that she dropped the 
 Signor Aragno quietly overboard in the neighbourhood 
 of the equator? " 
 
 " The real story may be quite different from either of 
 those I have told you." 
 
 "And she is a friend of poor old Donna TuUia! " ex- 
 claimed Montevarchi regretfully. " I am sorry for that. 
 For the sake of her history I could almost have gone to 
 the length of making her acquaintance." 
 
 " How the Del Terice would rave if she could hear you 
 call her poor old Donna Tullia," observed Frangipani. 
 " I remember how she danced at the ball when I came of 
 age ! " 
 
 " That was a long time ago, Filippo, " said Montevarchi 
 thoughtfully, " a very long time ago. We were all young 
 once, Filippo — but Donna Tullia is really only fit to fill 
 a glass case in a museum of natural history now." 
 
 The remark was not original, and had been in circula- 
 tion some time. But the three men laughed a little and 
 Montevarchi was much pleased by their appreciation. 
 He and Frangipani began to talk together, and Sant' 
 Ilario took up his paper again. When the young diplo- 
 matist laid his own aside and went out, Giovanni fol- 
 lowed him, and they left the club together. 
 
 " Have you any reason to believe that there is any- 
 thing irregular about this Madame d'Aranjuez?" asked 
 Sant' Ilario. 
 
 "No. Stories of that kind are generally inventions. 
 She has not been presented at Court — ^but that means 
 nothing here. And there is a doubt about her nation- 
 ality — but no one has asked her directly about it." 
 
 "May I ask who told you the stories?" 
 
 The young man's face immediately lost all expression. 
 
 "Eeally — I have quite forgotten," he said. "People 
 have been talking about her." 
 
 Sant' Ilario justly concluded that his companion's in- 
 formant was a lady, and probably one in whom the di- 
 plomatist was interested. Discretion is so rare that it 
 
DON OESINO. 107 
 
 can easily be traced to its causes. Giovanni left the 
 young man and walked away in the opposite direction, 
 inwardly meditating a piece of diplomacy quite foreign 
 to his nature. He said to himself that he would watch 
 the man in the world and that it would be easy to guess 
 who the lady in qiiestion was. It would have been clear 
 to any one but himself that he was not likely to learn 
 anything worth knowing, by his present mode of pro- 
 cedure. 
 
 "Gouache," he said, entering the artist's studio a 
 quarter of an hour later, " do you know anything about 
 Madame d'Aranjuez? " 
 
 "That is all I know," Gouache answered, pointing to 
 Maria Consuelo's portrait which stood finished upon an 
 easel before him, set in an old frame. He had been 
 touching it when Giovanni entered. " That is all I know, 
 and I do not know that thoroughly. I wish I did. She 
 is a wonderful subject." 
 
 Sant' Ilario gazed at the picture in silence. 
 
 "Are her eyes really like these? " he asked at length. 
 
 "Much finer." 
 
 "And her mouth?" 
 
 " Much larger, " answered Gouache with a smile. 
 
 "She is bad," said Giovanni with conviction, and he 
 thought of the Signor Aragno. 
 
 I "Women are never bad," observed Gouache with a 
 thoughtful air. "Some are less angelic than others. 
 You need only tell them all so to assure yourself of the 
 fact." 
 
 "I daresay. What is this person? French, Spanish 
 — South American? " 
 
 " I have not the least idea. She is not French, at all 
 events." 
 
 "Excuse me — does your wife know her?" 
 
 Gouache glanced quickly at his visitor's face. 
 
 "No." 
 
 Gouache was a singularly kind man, and he did his 
 best, perhaps for reasons of his own, to convey nothing 
 
108 DON OESINO. 
 
 by the monosyllable beyond the simple negation of a 
 fact. But the effort was not altogether successful. 
 There was an almost imperceptible shade of surprise in 
 the tone which did not escape Giovanni. On the other 
 hand it was perfectly clear to Gouache that Sant' Ilario's 
 interest in the matter was connected with Orsino. 
 
 "I cannot find any one who knows anything definite," 
 said Giovanni after a pause. 
 
 "Have you tried Spicca?" asked the artist, examining 
 his work critically. 
 
 "N'o. Why Spicca?" 
 
 "He always knows everything," answered Gouache 
 vaguely. "By the way, Saracinesca, do you not think 
 there might be a little more light just over the left eye? " 
 
 "How should I know?" 
 
 " You ought to know. What is the use of having been 
 brought up under the very noses of original portraits, 
 all painted by the best masters and doubtless ordered by 
 your ancestors at a very considerable expense — if you 
 do not know?" 
 
 Giovanni laughed. 
 
 "My dear old friend," he said good-humouredly, 
 " have you known us nearly five and twenty years with- 
 out discovering that it is our peculiar privilege to be 
 ignorant without reproach?" 
 
 Gouache laughed in his turn. 
 
 "You do not often make sharp remarks — but when 
 you do ! " 
 
 Giovanni left the studio very soon, and went in search 
 of Spicca. It was no easy matter to find the peripatetic 
 cynic on a winter's afternoon, but Gouache's remark had 
 seemed to mean something, and Sant' Ilario saw a faint 
 glimmer of hope in the distance. He knew Spicca's 
 habits very well, and was aware that when the sun was 
 low he would certainly turn into one of the many houses 
 where he was intimate, and spend an hour over a cup of 
 tea. The difiiculty lay in ascertaining which particular 
 fireside he would select on that afternoon. Giovanni 
 
DON OESINO. 109 
 
 hastily sketched a route for himself and asked the porter 
 at each of his friends' houses if Spicca had entered. 
 Fortune favoured him at last. Spicca was drinking his 
 tea with the Marchesa di San Giacinto. 
 
 Giovanni paused a moment before the gateway of the 
 palace in which San Giacinto had inhabited a large hired 
 apartment for many years. He did not see much of his 
 cousin, now, on account of diiierences in political opin- 
 ion, and he had no reason whatever for calling on Plavia, 
 especially as formal New Year's visits had lately been 
 exchanged. However, as San Giacinto was now a lead- 
 ing authority on questions of landed property in the city, 
 it struck him that he could pretend a desire to see 
 Flavia's husband, and make that an excuse for staying a 
 long time, if necessary, in order to wait for him. 
 
 He found Flavia and Spicca alone together, with a 
 small tea-table between them. The air was heavy with 
 the smoke of cigarettes, which clung \o the oriental cur- 
 tains and hung in clouds about the rare palms and plants. 
 Everything in the San Giacinto house was large, com- 
 fortable and unostentatious. There was not a chair to 
 be seen which might not have held the giant's frame. 
 San Giacinto was a wonderful judge of what was good. 
 If he paid twice as much as Montevarchi for a horse, the 
 horse turned out to be capable of four times the work. 
 If he bought a picture at a sale, it was discovered to be 
 by some good master and other people wondered why 
 they had lost courage in the bidding for a trifle of a 
 hundred francs. Nothing ever turned out badly with 
 him, but no success had the power to shake his solid 
 prudence. No one knew how rich he was, but those who 
 had watched him understood that he would never let the 
 world guess at half his fortune. He was a giant in all 
 ways and he had shown what he could do when he had 
 dominated Flavia during the first year of their marriage. 
 She had at first been proud of him, but about the time 
 when she would have wearied of another man, she dis- 
 covered that she feared him in a way she certainly did- 
 
110 DON OKSINO. 
 
 not fear the devil. Yet he had never spoken a harsh 
 word to her in his life. But there was something posi- 
 tively appalling to her in his enormous strength, rarely 
 exhibited and never without good reason, but always 
 quietly present, as the outline of a vast mountain re- 
 flected in a placid lake. Then she discovered to her 
 great surprise that he really loved her, which she had 
 not expected, and at the end of three years he became 
 aware that she loved him, which was still more astonish- 
 ing. As usual, his investment had turned out well. 
 
 At the time of which I am speaking Flavia was a 
 slight, graceful woman of forty years or thereabouts, 
 retaining much of the brilliant prettiness which served 
 her for beauty, and conspicuous always for her ex- 
 tremely bright eyes. She was of the type of women who 
 live to a great age. 
 
 She had not expected to see Sant' Ilario, and as she gave 
 her hand, she looked up at him with an air of inquiry. 
 It would have been like him to say that he had come to 
 see her husband and not herself, for he had no tact with 
 persons whom he did not especially like. There are 
 such people in the world. 
 
 "Will you give me a cup of tea, Flavia?" he asked, 
 as he sat down, after shaking hands with Spicca. 
 
 "Have you at last heard that your cousin's tea is 
 good?" inquired the latter, who was surprised by 
 Giovanni's coming. 
 
 "I am afraid it is cold," said Plavia, looking into the 
 teapot, as though she could discover the temperature by 
 inspection. 
 
 "It is no matter," answered Giovanni absently. 
 
 He was wondering how he could lead the conversation 
 to the discussion of Madame d'Aranjuez. 
 
 "You belong to the swallowers," observed Spicca, 
 lighting a fresh cigarette. " You swallow something, no 
 matter what, and you are satisfied." 
 
 "It is the simplest way — one is never disappointed." 
 
 "It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the sam^ 
 way," said Flavia with a laugh. 
 
DON OESINO. Ill 
 
 "Most people do," answered Spicca viciously. 
 "Were you at the Jubilee on the first day?" asked 
 Giovanni, addressing Flavia. 
 
 "Of course I was — and you spoke to me." 
 " That is true. By the bye, I saw that excellent Donna 
 TuUia there. I wonder whose ticket she had." 
 
 "She had the Princess Befana's," answered Spicca, who 
 knew everything. " The old lady happened to be dying 
 — she always dies at the beginning of the season — it used 
 to be for economy, but it has become a habit — and so 
 Del Ferice bought her card of her servant for his wife." 
 "Who was the lady who sat with her?" asked Gio- 
 vanni, delighted with his own skill. 
 
 " You ought to know ! " exclaimed Flavia. " We all 
 saw Orsino take her out. That is the famous, the in- 
 comparable Madame d'Aranjuez — the most beautiful of 
 Spanish princesses according to to-day's paper. I dare- 
 say you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party. 
 She is no more Spanish than Alexander the Great. Is 
 she, Spicca?" 
 
 "No, she is not Spanish," answered the latter. 
 " Then what in the world is she? " asked Giovanni im- 
 patiently. 
 
 "How should I know? Of course it is very disagree- 
 able for you." It was Flavia who spoke. 
 " Disagreeable ? How ? " 
 
 " Why, about Orsino of course. Everybody says he is 
 devoted to her." 
 
 "I wish everybody would mind his and her busi- 
 ness," said Giovanni sharply. "Because a boy makes 
 
 the acquaintance of a stranger at a studio " 
 
 "Oh — it was at a studio? I did not know that." 
 " Yes, at Gouache's — I fancied your sister might have 
 told you that," said Giovanni, growing more and more 
 irritable, and yet not daring to change the subject, lest 
 he should lose some valuable information. "Because 
 Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one 
 must say that he is in love with her." 
 Flavia laughed. 
 
112 DON OKSINO. 
 
 " My dear Giovanni, " she answered. " Let us be frank. 
 I used never to tell the truth under any circumstances, 
 when I was a girl, but Giovanni — my Giovanni — did not 
 like that. Do you know what he did? He used to cut 
 off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I 
 told — laughing at me all the time. At the end of the 
 first quarter I positively had not a pair of shoes, and 
 all my gloves had been cleaned twice. He used to keep 
 all the fines in a special pocket-book — if you knew how 
 hard I tried to steal it! But I could not. Then, of 
 course, I reformed. There was nothing else to be done 
 — that or rags — fancy! And do you know? I have grown 
 qtiite used to being truthful. Besides, it is so original, 
 that I pose with it." 
 
 Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her 
 cigarette. 
 
 "You do not often come to see me, Giovanni," she 
 said, " and since you are here I am going to tell you the 
 truth about your visit. You are beside yourself with 
 rage at Orsino's new fancy, and you want to find out all 
 about this Madame d'Aranjuez. So you came here, 
 because we are Whites and you saw that she had been 
 at the Del Ferice party, and you know that we know 
 them — and the rest is sung by the organ, as we say when 
 high mass is over. Is that the truth, or not? " 
 
 " Approximately, " said Giovanni, smiling in spite of 
 himself. 
 
 "Does Corona cut your allowance when you tell fibs?" 
 asked Plavia. "No? Then why say that it is only 
 approximately true? " 
 
 "I have my reasons. And you can tell me nothing? " 
 
 "Nothing. I believe Spicca knows all about her. 
 But he will not tell what he knows." 
 
 Spicca made no answer to this, and Giovanni deter- 
 mined to outstay him, or rather, to stay until he rose to 
 go and then go with him. It was tedious work for he 
 was not a man who could talk against time on all occa- 
 sions. But he struggled bravely and Spicca at last got 
 
DON OESINO. 113 
 
 up from his deep chair. They went out together, and 
 stopped as though by common consent upon the brilliantly 
 lighted landing of the first floor. 
 
 "Seriously, Spicca," said Giovanni, "I am afraid 
 Orsino is falling in love with this pretty stranger. If 
 you can tell me anything about her, please do so." 
 
 Spicca stared at the wall, hesitated a moment, and 
 then looked straight into his companion's eyes. 
 
 "Have you any reason to suppose that I, and I es- 
 pecially, know anything about this lady?" he asked. 
 
 "No — except that you know everything." 
 
 "That is a fable." Spicca turned from him and began 
 to descend the stairs. 
 
 Giovanni followed and laid a hand upon his arm. 
 
 " You will not do me this service? " he asked earnestly. 
 
 Again Spicca stopped and looked at him. 
 
 "You and I are very old friends, Giovanni," he said 
 slowly. "I am older than you, but we have stood by 
 each other very often — in places more slippery than 
 these marble steps. Do not let us quarrel now, old 
 friend. When I tell you that my omniscience exists 
 only in the vivid imaginations of people whose tea I like, 
 believe me, and if you wish to do me a kindness — for 
 the sake of old times — do not help to spread the idea 
 that I know everything." 
 
 The melancholy Spicca had never been given to talk- 
 ing about friendship or its mutual obligations. Indeed, 
 Giovanni could not remember having ever heard him 
 speak as he had just spoken. It was perfectly clear 
 that he knew something very definite about Maria Con- 
 suelo, and he probably had no intention of deceiving 
 Giovanni in that respect. But Spicca also knew his 
 man, and he knew that his appeal for Giovanni's 
 silence would not be vain. 
 
 "Very well," said Sant' Ilario. 
 
 They exchanged a few indifferent words before part- 
 ing, and then Giovanni walked slowly homeward, pon- 
 dering on the things he had heard that day. 
 
114 DON OESINO. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 While Giovanni was exerting himself to little purpose 
 in attempting to gain information concerning Maria 
 Consuelo, she had launched herself upon the society of 
 which the Countess Del Ferice was an important and in- 
 fluential member. Chance, and probably chance alone, 
 had guided her in the matter of this acquaintance, ' for it 
 could certainly not be said that she had forced herself 
 upon Donna TuUia, nor even shown any uncommon 
 readiness to meet the latter's advances. The offer of a 
 seat in her carriage had seemed natural enough, under 
 the circumstances, and Donna TuUia had been perfectly 
 free to refuse it if she had chosen to do so. 
 
 Though possessing but the very slightest grounds for 
 believing herself to be a born diplomatist, the Countess 
 had always delighted in petty plotting and scheming. 
 She now saw a possibility of annoying all Orsino's rela- 
 tions by attracting the object of Orsino's devotion to her 
 own house. She had no especial reason for supposing 
 that the young man was really very much in love with 
 Madame d'Aranjuez, but her woman's instinct, which 
 far surpassed her diplomatic talents in acuteness, told 
 her that Orsino was certainly not indifferent to the in- 
 teresting stranger. She argued, primitively enough, 
 that to annoy Orsino must be equivalent to annoying his 
 people, and she supposed that she could do nothing more 
 disagreeable to the young man's wishes than to induce 
 Madame d'Aranjuez to join that part of society from 
 which all the Saracinesca were separated by an insuper- 
 ably barrier. 
 
 Aiid Orsino indeed resented the proceeding, as she had 
 expected; but his family were at first more inclined to 
 look upon Donna Tullia as a good angel who had carried 
 off the tempter at the right moment to an unapproach- 
 able distance. It was not to be believed that Orsino 
 
DON ORSINO. 115 
 
 could do anything so monstrous as to enter Del Feriee's 
 house or ask a place in Del Feriee's circle, and it was 
 accordingly a relief to find that Madame d'Aranjuez had 
 definitely chosen to do so, and had appeared in olive- 
 green brocade at the Del Feriee's last party. The olive- 
 green brocade would now assuredly not figure in the 
 gatherings of the Saracinesca's intimate friends. 
 
 Like every one else, Orsino read the daily chronicle of 
 Koman life in the papers, and until he saw Maria Con- 
 suelo's name among the Del Feriee's guests, he refused 
 to believe that she had taken the irrevocable step he so 
 much feared. He had still entertained vague notions of 
 bringing about a meeting between her and his mother, 
 and he saw at a glance that such a meeting was now 
 quite out of the question. This was the first severe 
 shock his vanity had ever received and he was surprised 
 at the depth of his own annoyance. Maria Consuelo 
 might indeed have been seen once with Donna Tullia, 
 and might have gone once to the latter's day. That was 
 bad enough, but might be remedied by tact and decision 
 in her subsequent conduct. But there was no salvation 
 possible after a person had been advertised in the daily 
 paper as Madame d'Aranjuez had been. Orsino was very 
 angry. He had been once to see her since his first visit, 
 and she had said nothing about this invitation, though 
 Donna Tullia' s name had been mentioned. He was 
 offended with her for not telling him that she was going 
 to the dinner, as though he had any right to be made 
 acquainted with her intentions. He had no sooner made 
 the discovery than he determined to visit his anger upon 
 her, and throwing the paper aside went straight to the 
 hotel where she was stopping. 
 
 Maria Consuelo was at home and he was ushered into 
 the little sitting-room without delay. To his inexpres- 
 sible disgust he found Del Ferice himself installed upon 
 the chair near the table, engaged in animated conversa- 
 tion with Madame d'Aranjuez. The situation was awk- 
 ward in the extreme. Orsino hoped that Del Ferice 
 
116 DON OESrNO. 
 
 ■would go at once, and thus avoid the necessity of an in- 
 troduction. But Ugo did nothing of the kind. He 
 rose, indeed, but did not take his hat from the table, and 
 stood smiling pleasantly while Orsino shook hands with 
 Maria Consuelo. 
 
 "Let me make you acquainted," she said with exasper- 
 ating calmness, and she named the two men to each other. 
 
 Ugo put out his hand quietly and Orsino was obliged 
 to take it, which he did coldly enough. Ugo had more 
 than his share of tact, . and he never made a disagreeable 
 impression upon any one if he could help it. Maria 
 Consuelo seemed to take everything for granted, and 
 Orsino's appearance did not disconcert her in the slight- 
 est degree. Both men sat down and looked at her as 
 though expecting that she would choose a subject of con- 
 versation for them. 
 
 "We were talking of the change in Eome," she said. 
 " Monsieur Del Perice takes a great interest in all that is 
 doing, and he was explaining to me some of the difficul- 
 ties with which he ha,s to contend." 
 
 " Don Orsino knows what they are, as well as I, though 
 we might perhaps differ as to the way of dealing with 
 them," said Del Ferice. 
 
 " Yes, " answered Orsino, more coldly than was neces- 
 sary. "You play the active part, and we the passive." 
 
 "In a certain sense, yes," returned the other, quite 
 unruf9.ed. " You have exactly defined the situation, and 
 ours is by far the more disagreeable and thankless part 
 to play. Oh — I am not going to defend all we have 
 done ! I only defend what we mean to do. Change of 
 any sort is execrable to the man of taste, unless it is 
 brought about by time — and that is a beautifier which we 
 have not at our disposal. We are half Vandals and half 
 Americans, and we are in a terrible hurry." 
 
 Maria Consuelo laughed, and Orsino's face became a 
 shade less gloomy. He had expected to find Del Ferice 
 the arrogant, self-satisfied apostle of the modern, which 
 he was represented to be. 
 
DON OESINO. 117 
 
 "Could you not have taken a little more time?" asked 
 Orsino. 
 
 " I cannot see how. Besides it is our time -which takes 
 us with it. So long as Eome was the capital of an idea 
 there was no need of haste in doing anything. But 
 when it became the capital of a modern kingdom, it fell 
 a victim to modern facts — which are not beautiful. The 
 most we can hope to do is to direct the current, clumsily 
 enough, I daresay. We cannot stop it. Nothing short 
 of Oriental despotism could. We -cannot prevent people 
 from flocking to the centre, and where there is a popula- 
 tion it must be housed."^ 
 
 "Evidently," said Madame d'Aranjuez. 
 
 " It seems to me that, without disturbing the old city, 
 a new one might have been built beside it, " observed 
 Orsino. 
 
 "No doubt. And that is practically what we have 
 done. I say 'we,' because you say 'you.' But I think 
 you will admit that, as far as personal activity is con- 
 cerned, the Romans of Eome are taking as active a share 
 in building ugly houses as any of the Italian Romans. 
 The destruction of the Villa Ludovisi, for instance, 
 was forced upon the owner not by the national govern- 
 ment but by an insane municipality, and those who have 
 taken over the building lots are largely Roman princes 
 of the old stock." 
 
 The argument was unanswerable, and Orsino knew it", 
 a fact which did not improve his temper. It was dis- 
 agreeable enough to be forced into a conversation with 
 Del Ferice, and it was still worse to be obliged to agree 
 with him. Orsino frowned and said nothing, hoping 
 that the subject would drop. But Del Ferice had only 
 produced an unpleasant impression in order to. remove 
 it and thereby improve the whole situation, which was 
 one of the most difficult in which he had found himself 
 for some time. 
 
 " I repeat, " he said, with a pleasant smile, " that it is 
 hopeless to defend all of what is actually done in our 
 
118 DON OKSINO. 
 
 day in Eome. Some of your friends and many of mine 
 are building houses which even age and ruin will never 
 beautify. The only defensible part of the affair is the 
 political change which has brought about the necessity 
 of building at all, and upon that point I think that we 
 may agree to differ. Do you not think so, Don Orsino? " 
 
 "By all means," answered the young man, conscious 
 that the proposal was both just and fitting. 
 
 " And for the rest, both your friends and mine — for all 
 I know, your own family and certainly I myself — ^have 
 enormous interests at stake. We may at least agree to 
 hope that none of us may be ruined." 
 
 " Certainly — though we have had nothing to do with 
 the matter. Neither my father nor my grandfather have 
 entered into any such speculation." 
 
 "It is a pity," said Del rerice thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why a pity?" 
 
 " On the one hand my instincts are basely commercial, " 
 Del Ferice answered with a frank laugh. " No matter 
 how great a fortune may be, it may be doubled and 
 trebled. You must remember that I am a banker in fact 
 if not exactly in designation, and the opportunity is 
 excellent. But the greater pity is that such men as 
 you, Don Orsdno, who could exercise as much influence 
 as it might please you to use, leave it to men — very un- 
 like you, I fancy — to murder the architecture of Eome 
 and prepare the triumph of the hideous." 
 
 Orsino did not answer the remark, although he was 
 not altogether <Rispleased with the idea it conveyed. 
 Maria Consuelo looked at him. 
 
 " Why do you stand aloof and let things go from bad 
 to worse when you might really do good by joining in 
 the affairs of the day? " she asked. 
 
 " I could not join in them, if I would, " answered Orsino. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I have not command of a hundred francs in 
 the world, Madame. That is the simplest and best of 
 all reasons." 
 
DON OESINO. 119 
 
 Del Ferice laughed incredulously. 
 
 " The eldest son of Casa Saracinesca would not find 
 that a practical obstacle," he said, taking his hat and 
 rising to go. " Besides, what is needed in these transac- 
 tions is not so much ready money as courage, decision 
 and judgment. There is a rich firm of contlactors now 
 doing a large business, who began with three thousand 
 francs as their whole capital — what you might lose at 
 cards in an evening without missing it, though you say 
 that you have no money at your command." 
 
 "Is that possible?" asked Orsino with some interest. 
 
 " It is a fact. There were three men, a tobacconist, a 
 carpenter and a mason, and they each had a thousand 
 francs of savings. They took over a contract last week 
 for a million and a half, on which they will clear 
 twenty per cent. But they had the qualities — the dar- 
 ing and the prudence combined. They succeeded." 
 
 " And if they had failed, what would have happened? " 
 
 "They would have lost their three thousand francs. 
 They had nothing else to lose, and there was nothing in 
 the least irregular about their transactions. Good even- 
 ing, Madame — I have a private meeting of directors at 
 my house. Good evening, Don Orsino." 
 
 He went out, leaving behind him an impression which 
 was not by any means disagreeable. His appearance 
 was against him, Orsino thought. His fat white face 
 and dull eyes were not pleasant to look at. But he had 
 shown tact in a difficult situation, and there was a quiet 
 energy about him, a settled purpose whijU;could not fail 
 to please a young man who hated his Own idleness. 
 
 Orsino found that his mood had changed. He was 
 less angry than he had meant to be, and he saw extenu- 
 ating circumstances where he had at first only seen a 
 wilful mistake. He sat down again. 
 
 "Confess that he is not the impossible creature you 
 supposed, " said Maria Consuelo with a laugh. 
 
 "N"o, he is not. I had imagined something very 
 different. Nevertheless, I wish — one never has the 
 
120 DON OESINO. 
 
 least right to wish what one wishes " He stopped 
 
 in the middle of the sentence. 
 
 " That I had not gone to his wife's party, you would 
 say? But my dear Don Orsino, why should I refuse 
 pleasant things when they come into my life?" 
 
 "Was it so pleasant?" 
 
 "Of course it was. A beautiful dinner — half a dozen 
 clever men, all interested in the afEairs of the day, and 
 all anxious to explain them to me because I was a 
 stranger. A hundred people or so in the evening, who 
 all seemed to enjoy themselves as much as I did. Why. 
 should I refuse all that? Because my first acquaintance 
 in Eome — who was Gouache — is so 'indifferent,' andr" 
 because you — my second — are a pronounced clerical? 
 That is not reasonable." 
 
 "I do not pretend to be reasonable," said Orsino. 
 "To be reasonable is the boast of people who feel 
 nothing." 
 
 "Then you are a man of heart?" Maria Consuelo 
 seemed amused. 
 
 " I make no pretence to being a man of head, Madame." 
 
 "You are not easily caught." 
 
 "Nor Del Ferice either." 
 
 "Why do you talk of him? " 
 
 "The opportunity is good, Madame. As he is just 
 gone, we know that he is not coming." 
 
 "You can be very sarcastic, when you like," said 
 Maria Consuelo. "But I do not believe that you are as 
 bitter as you %ake yourself out to be. I do not even 
 believe that you found Del Terice so very disagreeable 
 as you pretend. You were certainly interested in what 
 he said." 
 
 "Interest is not always agreeable. The guillotine, 
 for instance, possesses the most lively interest for the 
 condemned man at an execution." 
 
 " Your illustrations are startling. I once saw an execu- 
 tion, quite by accident, and I would rather not think of it. 
 But you can hardly compare Del Ferice to the guillotine." 
 
DON ORSINO. 121 
 
 "He is as noiseless, as keen and as sure," said Orsino 
 smartly. 
 
 "There is such a thing as being too clever," answered 
 Maria Consuelo, without a smile. 
 
 " Is Del Ferice a case of that? " 
 
 "Ko. You are. You say cutting things merely be- 
 cause they come into your head, though I am sure that 
 you do not always mean them. It is a bad habit." 
 
 "Because it makes enemies, Madame?" Orsino was 
 annoyed by the rebuke. 
 
 "That is the least good of good reasons." 
 
 "Another, then?" 
 
 "It will prevent people from loving you," said Maria 
 Consuelo gravely. 
 
 " I never heard that " 
 
 "No? It is true, nevertheless." 
 
 "In that case I will reform at once," said Orsino, 
 trying to meet her eyes. But she looked away from 
 him. 
 
 " You think that I am preaching to you, " she answered. 
 "I have not the right to do that, and if I had, I would 
 certainly not use it. But I have seen something of the 
 world. Women rarely love a man who is bitter against 
 any one but himself. If he says cruel things of other 
 women, the one to whom he says them believes that he 
 will say much worse of her to the next he meets ; if he 
 abuses the men she knows, she likes it even less — it is 
 an attack on her judgment, on her taste and perhaps 
 upon a half-developed sympathy for the man attacked. 
 One should never be witty at another person's expense, 
 except with one's own sex." She laughed a little. 
 
 "What a terrible conclusion! " 
 
 "Is it? It is the true one." 
 
 " Then the way to win a woman's love is to praise her 
 acquaintances? That is original." 
 
 "I never said that." 
 
 "No? I misunderstood. What is the best way?" 
 
 "Oh — it is very simple," laughed ^aria Consuelo. 
 
122 rfoN OESiNO. 
 
 " Tell her you love her, and tell her so again and again— 
 you -will certainly please her in the end." 
 
 " Madame " Orsino stopped, and folded his hands 
 
 with an air of devout supplication. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! I was about to begin. It seemed so 
 simple, as you say." 
 
 They both laughed and their eyes met for a moment. 
 
 "Del Ferice interests me very much," said Maria 
 Consuelo, abruptly returning to the original subject of 
 conversation.' "He is one of those men who will be 
 held responsible for much that is now doing. Is it not 
 true? He has great influence." 
 
 "I have always heard so." Orsino was not pleased at 
 being driven to talk of Del Ferice again. 
 
 " Do you think what he said about you so altogether 
 absurd? " 
 
 "Absurd, no — impracticable, perhaps. You mean his 
 suggestion that I should try a little speculation? 
 Frankly, I had no idea that such things could be begun 
 with so little capital. It seems incredible. I fancy that 
 Del Ferice was exaggerating. You know how carelessly 
 bankers talk of a few thousands, more or less. Nothing 
 short of a million has much meaning for them. Three 
 thousand or thirty thousand — it is much the same in 
 their estimation." 
 
 " I daresay. After all, why should you risk anything? 
 I suppose it is simpler to play cards, though I should 
 think it less amusing. I was only thinking how easy it 
 would be for you to find a serious occupation if you 
 chose." 
 
 Orsino was silent for a moment, and seemed to be 
 thinking over the matter. 
 
 " Would you advise me to enter upon such a business 
 without my father's knowledge?" he asked presently.. 
 
 "How can I advise you? Besides, your father would 
 let you do as you please. There is nothing dishonour- 
 able in such things. The prejudice against business is 
 
DON OKSINO. 123 
 
 old-fashioned, and if you do not break through it your 
 children will." 
 
 Orsino looked thoughtftUy at Maria Consuelo. She 
 sometimes found an oddly masculine bluntness with 
 which to express her meaning, and which produced a 
 singular impression on the young man. It made him 
 feel what he supposed to be a sort of weakness, of 
 which he ought to be ashamed. 
 
 "There is nothing dishonourable in the theory," he 
 answered, "and the practice depends on the individual." 
 
 Maria Consuelo laughed. 
 
 "You see — ^you can be a moralist when you please," 
 she said. 
 
 There was a wonderful attraction in her yellow eyes 
 just at that moment. 
 
 " To please you, Madame, I could do something much 
 worse — or much better." 
 
 He was not quite in earnest, but he was not jesting, 
 and his face was more serious than his voice. Maria 
 Consuelo's hand was lying on the table beside the silver 
 paper-cutter. The white, pointed fingers were very 
 tempting and he would willingly have touched them. 
 He put out his hand. If she did not draw hers away he 
 would lay his own upon it. If she did, he would take 
 up the paper-cutter. As it turned out, he had to con- 
 tent himself with the latter. She did not draw her 
 hand away as though she understood what he was going 
 to do, but quietly raised it and turned the shade of the 
 lamp a few inches. 
 
 "I would rather not be respon-sible for your choice," 
 she said quietly. 
 
 "And yet you have left me none," he answered with 
 sudden boldness. 
 
 "No? How so?" 
 
 He held up the silver knife and smiled. 
 
 "I do not understand," she said, affecting a look of 
 surprise! 
 
 " I was going to ask your permission to take your hand." 
 
124 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Indeed? Why? There it is." She held it out 
 frankly. 
 
 He took the beautiful fingers in his and looked at them 
 for a moment. Then he quietly raised them to his lips. 
 
 "That was not included in the permission," she said, 
 with a little laugh and drawing back. " Now you ought 
 to go away at once." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because that little ceremony can belong only to the 
 beginning or the end of a visit." 
 
 "I have only just come." 
 
 "Ah? How long the time has seemed! I fancied you 
 had been here half an hour." 
 
 "To me it has seemed but a minute," answered Orsino 
 promptly. 
 
 "And you will not go?" 
 
 There was nothing of the nature of a peremptory dis- 
 missal in the look which accompanied the words. 
 
 "No — at the most, I will practise leave-taking." 
 
 "I think not," said Maria Consuelo with sudden cold- 
 ness. " You are a little too — what shall I say? — too en- 
 terprising, prince. You had better make use of the 
 gift where it will be a recommendation — in business, 
 for instance." 
 
 "You are very severe, Madame," answered Orsino, 
 deeming it wiser to affect humility, though a dozen sharp 
 answers suggested themselves to his ready wit. 
 
 Maria Consuelo was silent for a few seconds. Her 
 head was resting upon the little red morocco cushion, 
 which heightened the dazzling whiteness of her skin and 
 lent a deeper colour to her auburn hair. She was gaz- 
 ing at the hangings above the door. Orsino watched 
 her in quiet admiration. She was beautiful as he saw 
 her there at. that moment, for the irregularities of her 
 features were forgotten in the brilliancy of her colour- 
 ing and in the grace of the attitude. Her face was seri- 
 ous at first. Gradually a smile stole over it, beginning, 
 as it seemed, from the deeply set eyes and concentrating 
 
DON OKSINO. 125 
 
 itself at last in the full, red mouth. Then she spoke, 
 still looking upwards and away from him. 
 
 "What -would you think if I were not a little severe? " 
 she asked. " I am a woman living — ^travelling, I should 
 say — quite alone, a stranger here, and little less than a 
 stranger to you. What would you think if I were not a 
 little severe, I say? What conclusion would you come 
 to, if I let you take my hand as often as you pleased, 
 and say whatever suggested itself to your imagination — 
 your very active imagination?" 
 
 " I should think you the most adorable of women " 
 
 " But it is not my ambition to -be thought the most 
 adorable of women by you. Prince Orsino." 
 
 " No — of course not. People never care for what they 
 get without an effort." 
 
 "You are absolutely irrepressible! " exclaimed Maria 
 Consuelo, laughing in spite of herself. 
 
 " And you do not like that ! I will be meekness itself 
 — a lamb, if you please." 
 
 "Too playful — it would not suit your style." 
 
 "A stone " 
 
 "I detest geology." 
 
 " A lap-dog, then. Make your choice, Madame. The 
 menagerie of the universe is at your disposal. When 
 Adam gave names to the animals, he could have called 
 a lion a lap-dog — to reassure the Africans. But he 
 lacked imagination— he called a cat, a cat." 
 
 "That had the merit of simplicity, at all events." 
 
 " Since you admire his system, you may call me either 
 Cain or Abel," suggested Orsino. " Am I humble enough? 
 Can submission go farther? " 
 
 "Either would be flattery — for Abel was good and 
 Cain was interesting." 
 
 "And I am neither — you give me another opportunity 
 of exhibiting my deep humility.' I thank you sincerely. 
 You are becoming more gracious than I had hoped." 
 
 " You are very like a woman, Don Orsino. You always 
 try to have the last word." 
 
126 DON OESINO. 
 
 " I always hope that the last word may be the best. 
 But I accept the criticism — or the reproach, with my 
 usual gratitude. I only beg you to observe that to let 
 you have the last word would be for me to end the con- 
 versation, after which I should be obliged to go away. 
 And I do not wish to go, as I have already said." 
 
 " You suggest the means of making you go," answered 
 Maria Consuelo, with a smile. " I can be silent — if you 
 will not." 
 
 "It will be useless. If you do not interrupt me, I 
 shall become eloquent " 
 
 " How terrible ! Pray do not ! " 
 
 " You see ! I have you in my power. You cannot get 
 rid of me." 
 
 "I would appeal to your generosity, then." 
 
 "That is another matter, Madame," said Orsino, tak- 
 ing his hat. 
 
 " I only said that I would " Maria Consuelo made 
 
 a gesture to stop him. 
 
 But he was wise enough to see that the conversation 
 had reached its natural end, and his instinct told him that 
 he should not outstay his welcome. He pretended not 
 to see the motion of her hand, and rose to take his leave. 
 
 "You do not know me," he said. "To point out to 
 me a possible generous action, is to ensure my perform- 
 ing if without hesitation. When may I be so fortunate 
 as to see you again, Madame?" 
 
 "You need not be so intensely ceremonious. You 
 know that I am always at home at this hour. " 
 
 Orsino was very much struck by this answer. There 
 was a shade of irritation in the tone, which he had cer- 
 tainly not expected, and which flattered him exceedingly. 
 She turned her face away as she gave him her hand and 
 moved a book on the table with the other as though she 
 meant to begin reading almost before he should be out 
 of the room. He had not felt by any means sure that 
 s^e really liked his society, and he had not expected 
 ?hat she would so far forget herself as to show her in- 
 
DON OESINO. 127 
 
 clination by her impatience. He had judged, rightly or 
 wrongly, that she was a woman who weighed every word 
 and gesture beforehand, and who would be incapable of 
 such an oversight as an unpremeditated manifestation of 
 feeling. 
 
 Very young men are nowadays apt to imagine compli- 
 cations of character where they do not exist, often over- 
 looking them altogether where they play a real part. 
 The passion for analysis discovers what it takes for new 
 simple elements in humanity's motives, and often ends 
 by feeding on itself in the effort to decompose what is not 
 composite. The greatest analysers are perhaps the young 
 and the old, who, being respectively before and behind 
 the times, are not so intimate with them as those who 
 are actually making history, political or social, ethical 
 or scandalous, dramatic or comic. 
 
 It is very much the custom among those who write 
 iiction in the English language to efface their own indi- 
 viduality behind the majestic but rather meaningless 
 plural, "we," or to let the characters created express the 
 author's view of mankind. The great French novelists 
 are more frank, for they say boldly "I," and have the 
 courage of their opinions. Their merit is the greater, 
 since those opinions seem to be rarely complimentary to 
 the human race in general, or to their readers in particu- 
 lar. Without introducing any comparison between the 
 fiction of the two languages, it may be said that the 
 tendency of the method is identical in both cases and is 
 the consequence of an extreme preference for analysis, 
 to the detriment of the romantic and very often of the 
 dramatic element in the modern novel. The result may 
 or may not be a volume of modern social history for the 
 instruction of the present and the future generation. 
 If it is not, it loses one of the chief merits which it 
 claims ; if it is, then we must admit the rather strange 
 deduction, that the political history of our times has 
 absorbed into itself all the romance and the tragedy at 
 the disposal of destiny, leaving next to none at all in 
 
128 DON ORSINO. 
 
 the private lives of the actors and their numerous rela- 
 tions. 
 
 Whatever the truth may be, it is certain that this love 
 of minute dissection is exercising an enormous influence 
 in our time; and as no one will pretend that a majority 
 of the young persons in society who analyse the motives 
 of their contemporaries and elders are successful moral 
 anatomists, we are forced to the conclusion that they 
 are frequently indebted to their imaginations for the re- 
 sults they obtain and not seldom for the material upon 
 which they work. A real Chemistry may some day grow 
 out of the failures of this fanciful Alchemy, but the 
 present generation will hardly live to discover the philos- 
 opher's stone, though the search for it yield gold, in- 
 directly, by the writing of many novels. If fiction is to 
 be counted among the arts at all, it is not yet time to 
 forget the saying of a very great man : " It is the mis- 
 sion of all art to create and foster agreeable illusions." 
 
 Orsino Saracinesca was no further removed from the 
 action of the analytical bacillus than other men of his 
 age. He believed and desired his own character to be 
 more complicated than it was, and he had no sooner 
 made the acquaintance of Maria Consuelo than he began 
 to attribute to her minutest actions such a tortuous web 
 of motives as would have annihilated all action if it had 
 really existed in her brain. The possible simplicity of 
 a strong and much tried character, good or bad, alto- 
 gether escaped him, and even an occasional unrestrained 
 word or gesture failed to convince him that he was on 
 the wrong track. To tell the truth, he was as yet very 
 inexperienced. His visits to Maria Consuelo passed 
 in making light conversation. He tried to amuse her, 
 and succeeded fairly well, while at the same time he in- 
 dulged in endless and fruitless speculations as to her 
 former life, her present intentions and her sentiments 
 with regard to himself. He would have liked to lead 
 her intc^talking of herself, but he did not know where to 
 begin. It was not a part of his system to believe in 
 
DON ORSINO. 129 
 
 mysteries concerning people, but when he reflected upon 
 the matter he was amazed at the impenetrability of the 
 barrier which cut him off from all knowledge of her life. 
 He soon heard the tales about her which were carelessly 
 circulated at the club, and he listened to them without 
 much interest, though he took the trouble to deny their 
 truth on his own responsibility, which surprised the men 
 who knew him and gave rise to the story that he was in 
 love with Madame d'Aranjuez. The most annoying 
 consequence of the rumour was that every woman to 
 whom he spoke in society overwhelmed him with ques- 
 tions which he could not answer except in the vaguest 
 terms. In his ignorance he did his best to evolve a satis- 
 factory history for Maria Consuelo out of his imagina- 
 tion, but the result was not satisfactory. 
 
 He continued his visits to her, resolving before each 
 meeting that he would risk offending her by putting 
 some question which she must either answer directly or 
 refuse to answer altogether. But he had not counted 
 upon his own inherent hatred of rudeness, nor upon the 
 growth of an attachment which he had not foreseen when 
 he had coldly made up his mind that it would be worth 
 while to make love to her, as Gouache had laughingly 
 suggested. Yet he was pleased with what he deemed his 
 own coldness. He assuredly did not love her, but he 
 knew already that he would not like to give up the half 
 hours he spent with her. To offend her seriously would 
 be to forfeit a portion of his daily amusement which he 
 could not spare. 
 
 From time to time he risked a careless, half -jesting 
 declaration such as many a woman might have taken 
 seriously. But Maria Consuelo turned such advances 
 with a laugh or by an answer that was admirably tem- 
 pered with quiet dignity and friendly rebuke. 
 
 "If she is not good," he said to himself at last, "she 
 must be enormously clever. She must be one or the 
 other." 
 
130 DON OESINO. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Orsino's twenty-first birthday fell in the latter part of 
 January, when the Eoman season was at its height, but 
 as the young man's majority did not bring him any of 
 those sudden changes in position which make epochs in 
 the lives of fatherless sons, the event was considered as 
 a family matter and no great social celebration of it was 
 contemplated. It chanced, too, that the day of the week 
 was the one appropriated by the Montevarchi for their 
 weekly dance, with which it would have been a mistake 
 to interfere. The old Prince Saracinesca, however, in- 
 sisted that a score of old friends should be asked to din- 
 ner, to drink the health of his eldest grandson, and this 
 was accordingly done. 
 
 Orsino always looked back to that banquet as one 
 of the dullest at which he ever assisted. The friends 
 were literally old, and their conversation was not 
 brilliant. Each one on arriving addressed to him a few 
 congratulatory and moral sentiments, clothed in rounded 
 periods and twanging of Cicero in his most sermonising 
 mood. Each drank his especial health at the end of the 
 dinner in a teaspoonful of old "vin santo," and each 
 made a stiff compliment to Corona on her youthful ap- 
 pearance. The men were almost all gra,ndees of Spain 
 of the first class and wore their ribbons by common con- 
 sent, which lent the assembly an imposing appearance : 
 but several of them were of a somnolent disposition and 
 nodded after dinner, which did not contribute to prolong 
 the effect produced. Orsino thought their stories and 
 anecdotes very long-winded and pointless, and even the 
 old prince himself seemed oppressed by the solemnity 
 of the affair, and rarely laughed. Corona, with serene 
 good humour did her best to make conversation, and a 
 shade of animation occasionally appeared at her end of 
 the table; but Sant' Ilario was bored to the verge of 
 
DON ORSINO. 131 
 
 extinction and talked of nothing but archaeology and the 
 trial of the Cenci, wondering inwardly why he chose 
 such exceedingly dry subjects. As for Orsino, the two 
 old princesses between whom he was placed paid very 
 little attention to him, and talked across him about the 
 merits of their respective confessors and directors. He 
 frivolously asked them whether they ever went to the 
 theatre, to which they replied very coldly that they went 
 to their boxes when the piece was not on the Index and 
 when there was no ballet. Orsino understood why he 
 never saw them at the opera, and relapsed into silence. 
 The butler, a son of the legendary Pasquale of earlier 
 days, did his best to cheer the youngest of his masters with 
 a great variety of wines ; but Orsino would not be com- 
 forted either by very dry champagne or very mellow 
 claret. But he vowed a bitter revenge and swore to 
 dance till three in the morning at the Montevarchi's and 
 finish the night with a rousing baccarat at the club, 
 which projects he began to put into execution as soon 
 as was practicable. 
 
 In due time the guests departed, solemnly renewing 
 their expressions of good wishes, and the Saraeinesca 
 household was left to itself. The old prince stood before 
 the fire in the state drawing-room, rubbing his hands 
 and shaking his head. Giovanni and Corona sat on 
 opposite sides of the fireplace, looking at each other and 
 somewhat inclined to laugh. Orsino was intently study- 
 ing a piece of historical tapestry which had never inter- 
 ested him before. 
 
 The silence lasted some time. Then old Saraeinesca 
 raised his head and gave vent to his feelings, with all 
 his old energy. 
 
 " What a museum ! " he exclaimed. " I would not have 
 believed that I should live to dine in my own house with 
 a party of stranded figure-heads, set up in rows around 
 my table ! The paint is all worn ofE and the brains are 
 all worn out and there is nothing left but a cracked old 
 block of wood with a ribbon around its neck. You will 
 
132 DOIT OBStKO. 
 
 be just like them, Giovanni, in a few years, for you 
 ■will be just like me — we all turn into the same shape 
 at seventy, and if we live a dozen years longer it is 
 because Providence designs to make us an awful ex- 
 ample to the young." 
 
 " I hope you do not call yourself a figure-head, " said 
 Giovanni. 
 
 "They are calling me by worse names at this very 
 minute as they drive home. 'That old Methuselah of a 
 Saraeinesca, how has he the face to go on living? ' That 
 is the way they talk. 'People ought to die decently when 
 other people have had enough of them, instead of sitting 
 up at the table like death's-heads to grin at their grand- 
 children and great-grandchildren ! ' They talk like that, 
 Giovanni. I have known some of those old monuments 
 for sixty years and more — since they were babies and I was 
 of Orsino's age. Do you suppose I do not know how they 
 talk? You always take me for a good, confiding old fellow, 
 Giovanni. But then, you never understood human nature. " 
 
 Giovanni laughed and Corona smiled. Orsino turned 
 round to enjoy the rare delight of seeing the old gentle- 
 man rouse himself in a fit of temper. 
 
 " If you were ever confiding it was because you were 
 too good," said Giovanni affectionately. 
 
 "Yes — good and confiding — ^that is it! You always 
 did agree with me as to my own faults. Is it not true, 
 Corona? Can you not take my part against that grace- 
 less husband of yours? He is always abusing me — as 
 though I were his property, or his guest. Orsino, my 
 boy, go away — we are all quarrelling here like a pack of 
 wolves, and you ought to respect your elders. Here is 
 your father calling me by bad names " 
 
 " I said you were too good, " observed Giovanni. 
 
 " Yes — good and confiding ! If you can find anything 
 worse to say, say it — and may you live to hear that good- 
 for-nothing Orsino call you good and confiding when you 
 are eighty-two years old. And Corona is laughing at 
 me. It is insufferable. You used to be a good girl. 
 
DOK ORSINO. 133 
 
 Corona — but you are so proud of having four sons that 
 /there is no possibility of talking to you any longer. It 
 j is a pity that you have not brought them, up better. 
 Look at Orsino. He is laughing too." 
 
 " Certainly not at you, grandfather, " the young man 
 hastened to say. 
 
 " Then you must be laughing at your father or your 
 
 ather, or both, since there is no one else here to laugh 
 at. >^ou are concocting sharp speeches for your abomi- 
 nable tangue. I know it. I can see it in your eyes. 
 That is ra,e way you have brought up your children, 
 Giovanni. "SI congratulate you. Upon my word, I con- 
 gratulate you with all my heart ! Not that I ever ex- 
 pected anything better. You addled your own brains with 
 curious foreign ideas on your travels — the greater fool I 
 for letting you run about the world when you were 
 young. I ought to have locked you up in Saracinesca, 
 on bread and water, until you understood the world 
 well enough to profit by it. I wish I had." 
 
 None of the three could help laughing at this extraor- 
 dinary speech. Orsino recovered his gravity first, by 
 the help of the historical tapestry. The old gentleman 
 noticed the fact. 
 
 "Come here, Orsino, my boy," he said. "I want to 
 talk to you." 
 
 Orsino came forward. The old prince laid a hand on 
 his shoulder and looked up into his face. 
 
 "You are twenty-one years old to-day," he said, "and 
 we are all quarrelling in honour of the event. You 
 ought to be flattered that we should take so much trouble 
 to make the evening pass pleasantly for you, but you 
 probably have not the discrimination to see what your 
 amusement costs us." 
 
 His grey beard shook a little, his rugged features 
 twitched, and then a broad good-humoured smile lit up 
 the old face. 
 
 "We are quarrelsome people," he continued in his most 
 cheerful and hearty tone. "When Giovanni and I 
 
134 DON OESINO. 
 
 ■were young — we were young together, you know — we 
 quarrelled every day as regularly as we ate and drank. 
 I believe it was very good for us. We generally made 
 it up before night — for the sake of beginning again with 
 a clear conscience. Anything served us — the weather, 
 the soup, the colour of a horse." 
 
 " You must have led an extremely lively life," observed 
 Orsino, considerably amused. 
 
 " It was very well for us, Orsino. But it will not do 
 for you. You are not so much like your father, as he 
 was like me at your age. We fought with the same 
 weapons, but you two would not, if you fought at all. 
 We fenced for our own amusement and we kept the 
 buttons on the foils. You have neither my really angelic 
 temper nor your father's stony coolness — he is laughing 
 again — no matter, he knows it is true. You have a 
 diabolical tongue. Do not quarrel with your father for 
 amusement, Orsino. His calmness will exasperate you 
 as it does me, but you will not laugh at the right moment 
 as I have done all my life. You will bear malice and 
 grow sullen and permanently disagreeable. And do not 
 say all the cutting things you tliank of, because with 
 your disposition you will get into\ serious trouble. If 
 you have really good cause for beii^ angry, it is better 
 to strike than to speak, and in such cases I strongly 
 advise you to strike first. Now go and ^muse yourself, for 
 you must have had enough of our company. I do not think 
 of any other advice to give you on your coming of age." 
 
 Thereupon he laughed again and pushed his grandson 
 away, evidently delighted with the lecture he had given 
 him. Orsino was quick to profit by the permission and 
 was soon in the Montevarchi ballroom, doing his best to 
 forget the lugubrious feast in his own honour at which 
 he had lately assisted. 
 
 He was not altogether successful, however. He had 
 looked forward to the day for many months as one of 
 rejoicing as well as of emancipation, and he had been 
 grievously disappointed. There was something of ill 
 
DON ORSINO. 135 
 
 augury, he thought, in the appalling dulness of the 
 guests, for they had congratulated him upon his entry 
 into a life exactly similar to their own. Indeed, the more 
 precisely similar it proved to be, the more he would be 
 respected when he reached their advanced age. The 
 future unfolded to him was not gay. He was to live 
 forty, fifty or even sixty years in the same round of 
 traditions and hampered by the same net of prejudices. 
 He might have his romance, as his father had had before 
 him, but there was nothing beyond that. His father 
 seemed perfectly satisfied with his own unruf&ed exist- 
 ence and far from desirous of any change. The feudal- 
 ism of it all was still real in fact, though abolished in 
 theory, and the old prince was as much a great feudal 
 lord as ever, whose interests were almost tribal in their 
 narrowness, almost sordid in their detail, and altogether 
 uninteresting to his presumptive heir in the third genera- 
 tion. What was the peasant of Aquaviva, for instance, 
 to Orsino? Yet Sant' Ilario and old Saracinesca took 
 a lively interest in his doings and in the doings of foiir or 
 five hundred of his kind, whom they knew by name and 
 spoke of as belongings, much as they would have spoken 
 of books in the library. To collect rents from peasants 
 and to ascertain in person whether their houses needed 
 repair was not a career. Orsino thought enviously of 
 San Giacinto's two sons, leading what seemed to him a 
 life of comparative activity and excitement in the Italian 
 army, and having the prospect of distinction by their 
 own merits. He thought of San Giacinto himself, of his 
 ceaseless energy and of the great position he was build- 
 ing up. San Giacinto was a Saracinesca as well as 
 Orsino, bearing the same name and perhaps not less re- 
 spected than the rest by the world at large, though he 
 had sullied his hands with finance. Even Del Ferice's 
 position would have been above criticism, but for certain 
 passages in his earlier life not immediately connected 
 with his present occupation. And as if such instances 
 were not enough there were, to Orsino's certain knowl- 
 
186 DON OESINO. 
 
 edge, half a dozen men of his father's rank even now 
 deeply engaged in the speculations of the day. Mon- 
 tevarchi was one of them, and neither he nor the others 
 made any secret of their doings. 
 
 " Surely, " thought Orsino, " I have as good a head as 
 any of them, except, perhaps, San Giacinto." 
 
 And he grew more and more discontented with his lot, 
 and more and more angry at himself for submitting to 
 be bound hand and foot and sacrificed upon the altar of 
 feudalism. Everything had disappointed and irritated 
 liim on that day, the weariness of the dinner, the sight 
 of his parents' placid felicity, the advice his grandfather 
 had given him — good of its kind, but lamentably insuffi- 
 cient, to say the least of it. He was rapidly approach- 
 ing that state of mind in which young men do the most 
 unexpected things for .the mere pleasure of surprising 
 their relations. 
 
 He grew tired of the ball, because Madame d'Aranjuez 
 was not there. He longed to dance with her and he 
 wished that he were at liberty to frequent the houses to 
 which she was asked. But as yet she saw only the 
 Whites and had not made the acquaintance of a single 
 Grey family, in spite of his entreaties. He could not 
 tell whether she had any fixed reason in making hex 
 choice, or whether as yet it had been the result of 
 chance, but he discovered that he was bored- wherever 
 he went because she was not present. At supper-time 
 on this particular evening, he entered into a conspiracy 
 with certain choice spirits to leave the party and adjourn 
 to the club and cards. 
 
 The sight of the tables revived him and he drew a long 
 breath as he sat down with a cigarette in his mouth and 
 a glass at his elbow. It seemed as though the day were 
 beginning at last. 
 
 Orsino was no more a born gambler than he was dis- 
 posed to be a hard drinker. He loved excitement in 
 any shape, and being so constituted as to bear it better 
 than most men, he took it greedily in whatever form it 
 
DON OESINO. 137 
 
 •was offered to him. He neither played nor drank every 
 day, but when he did either he was inclined to play more 
 than other people and to consume more strong liquor. 
 Yet his judgment was not remarkable, nor his head 
 much stronger than the heads of his companions. Great 
 gamblers do not drink, and great drinkers are not good 
 players, though they are sometimes amazingly lucky 
 when in their cups. 
 
 It is of no use to deny the enormous influence of 
 brandy and games of chance on the men of the present 
 day, but there is little profit in describing such scenes as 
 take place nightly in many clubs all over Europe. Some- 
 thing might be gained, indeed, if we could trace the 
 causes which have made gambling especially the vice of 
 our generation, for that discovery might show us some 
 means of influencing the next. But I do not believe that 
 this is possible. The times have undoubtedly grown more 
 dull, as civilisation has made them more alike, but there 
 is, I think, no truth in the common statement that vice is 
 bred of idleness. The really idle man is a poor creature, 
 incapable of strong sins. It is far more often the man 
 of superior gifts, with faculties overwrought and nerves 
 strained above concert pitch by excessive mental exer- 
 tion, who turns to vicious excitement for the sake of rest, 
 as a duller man falls asleep. Men whose lives are spent 
 amidst the vicissitudes, surprises and disappointments 
 of the money market are assuredly less idle than country 
 gentlemen; the busy lawyer has less time to spare than 
 the equally gifted fellow of a college; the skilled me- 
 chanic works inflnitely harder, taking the average of the 
 whole year, than the agricultural labourer; the life of 
 a sailor on an ordinary merchant ship is one of rest, ease 
 and safety compared with that of the collier. Yet there 
 can hardly be a doubt as to which individual in each 
 example is the one to seek relaxation in excitement, 
 innocent or the reverse, instead of in sleep. The opera- 
 tor in the stock market, the barrister, the mechanic, the 
 miner, in every case the men whose faculties are the 
 
138 DON ORSINO. 
 
 more severely strained, are those who seek strong emo- 
 tions in their daily leisure, and who are the more in- 
 clined to extend that leisure at the expense of bodily 
 rest. It may be objected that the worst vice is found in 
 the highest grades of society, that is to say, among men 
 who have no settled occupation. I answer that, in the 
 first place, this is not a known fact, but a matter of 
 speculation, and that the conclusion is principally drawn 
 from the circumstance that the evil deeds of such per- 
 sons, when they become known, are very severely criti- 
 cised by those whose criticism has the most weight, 
 namely by the equals of the sinners in question — as well 
 as by writers of fiction whose opinions may or may not 
 be worth considering. For one Zola, historian of the 
 Eougon-Macquart family, there are a hundred would-be 
 Zolas, censors of a higher class, less unpleasantly fond 
 of accurate detail, perhaps, but as merciless in intention. 
 But even if the case against society be proved, which is 
 possible, I do not think that society can truly be called 
 idle, because many of those who compose it have no 
 settled occupation. The social day is a long one. 
 Society would not accept the eight hours' system de- 
 manded by the labour unions. Society not uncommonly 
 works at a high pressure for twelve, fourteen and even 
 sixteen hours at a stretch. The mental strain, though 
 not of the most intellectual order, is incomparably more 
 severe than that required for success in many lucrative 
 professions or crafts. The general absence of a distinct 
 aim sharpens the faculties in the keen pursuit of details, 
 and lends an importance to trifles which overburdens at 
 every turn the responsibility borne by the nerves. Lazy 
 people are not favourites in drawing-rooms, and still less 
 at the dinner-table. Consider also that the average man 
 of the world, and many women, daily sustain an amount 
 of bodily fatigue equal perhaps to that borne by many 
 mechanics and craftsmen and much greater than that 
 required in the liberal professions, and that, too, under 
 far less favourable conditions, Eecapitulate all these 
 
DON ORSINO. 139 
 
 points. Add together the physical effort, the mental 
 activity, the nervous strain. Take the sum and compare 
 it with that got by a similar process from other condi- 
 tions of existence. I think there can be little doubt of 
 the verdict. The force exerted is wasted, if you please, 
 but it is enormously great, and more than sufficient to 
 prove that those who daily exert it are by no means idle. 
 Besides, none of the inevitable outward and visible 
 results of idleness are apparent in the ordinary society 
 man or woman. On the contrary, most of them exhibit 
 the peculiar and unmistakable signs of physical exhaus- 
 tion, chief of which is cerebral anaemia. They are over- 
 trained and overworked. In the language of training 
 they are "stale." 
 
 Men like Orsino Saracinesca are not vicious at his age, 
 though they may become so. Vice begins when the ex- 
 citement ceases to be a matter of taste and turns into a 
 necessity. Orsino gambled because it amused him when 
 no other amusement was obtainable, and he drank while 
 he played because it made the amusement seem more 
 amusing. He was far too young and healthy and strong 
 to feel an irresistible longing for anything not natural. 
 
 On the present occasion he cared very little, at first, 
 whether he won or lost, and as often happens to a man 
 in that mood he won a considerable sum during the first 
 hour. The sight of the notes before him strengthened 
 an idea which had crossed his mind more than once of 
 late, and the stimulants he drank suddenly fixed it into 
 a purpose. It was true that he did not command any 
 sum of money which could be dignified by the name of 
 capital, but he generally had enough in his pocket to 
 play with, and to-night he had rather more than usual. 
 It struck him that if he could win a few thousands by a 
 run of luck, he would have more than enough to try his 
 fortune in the building speculations of which Del Perice 
 had talked. The scheme took shape and at once lent a 
 passionate interest to his play. 
 
 Orsino had no sygteni and generally left everything to 
 
140 DON ORSINO. 
 
 chance, but lie had no sooner determined that he must 
 win than he improvised a method, and began to play- 
 carefully. Of course he lost, and as he saw his heap of 
 notes diminishing, he filled his glass more and more 
 often. By two o'clock he had but five hundred francs 
 left, his face was deadly pale, the lights dazzled him 
 and his hands moved uncertainly. He held the bank 
 and he knew that if he lost on the card he must borrow 
 money, which he did not wish to do. 
 
 He dealt himself a five of spades, and glanced at the 
 stakes. They were considerable. A last sensation of 
 caution prevented him from taking another card. The 
 table turned up a six and he lost. 
 
 "Lend me some money, Filippo," he said to the man 
 nearest him, who immediately counted out a number of 
 notes. 
 
 Orsino paid with the money and the bank passed. He 
 emptied his glass and lit a cigarette. At each succeed- 
 ing deal he staked a small sum and lost it, till the bank 
 came to him again. Once more he held a five. The 
 other men saw that he was losing and put up all they 
 could. Orsino hesitated. Some one observed- justly 
 that he probably held a five again. The lights swam 
 indistinctly before him and he drew another card. It 
 was a four. Orsino laughed nervously as he gathered 
 the notes and paid back what he had borrowed. 
 
 He did not remember clearly what happened after- 
 wards. The faces of the cards grew less distinct and the 
 lights more dazzling. He played blindly and won al- 
 most without interruption until the other men dropped 
 off one by one, having lost as much as they cared to part 
 with at one sitting. At four o'clock in the morning 
 Orsino went home in a cab, having about fifteen thousand 
 francs in his pockets. The men he had played with were 
 mostly young fellows like himself, having a limited 
 allowance of pocket money, and Orsino's winnings were 
 very large under the circumstances. 
 
 The night air cooled his head and he laughed gaily to 
 
DON ORSINO. 141 
 
 himself as he drove thrcftgh the deserted streets. His 
 hand was steady enough now, and the gas lamps did not 
 move disagreeably before his eyes. But he had reached 
 the stage of excitement in which a fixed idea takes hold 
 of the brain, and if it had been possible he would un- 
 doubtedly have gone as he was, in evening dress, with 
 his winnings in his pocket, to rouse Del Perice, or San 
 Griacinto, or any one else who could put him in the way 
 . of risking his money on a building lot. He reluctantly 
 resigned himself to the necessity of going to bed, and 
 slept as one sleeps at twenty-one until nearly eleven 
 o'clock on the following morning. 
 
 While he dressed he recalled the circumstances of the 
 previous night and was surprised to find that his idea 
 was as fixed as ever. He counted the money. There 
 was five times as much as the Del Ferice's carpenter, 
 tobacconist and mason had been able to scrape together 
 amongst them. He had therefore, according to his 
 simple calculation, just five times as good a chance of 
 succeeding as they. And they had been successful. 
 His plan fascinated him, and he looked forward to the 
 constant interest and occupation with a delight which 
 was creditable to his character. He would be busy and 
 the magic word "business" rang in his ears. It was 
 speculation, no doubt, but he did not look upon it as a 
 form of gambling; if he had done so, he would not have 
 cared for it on two consecutive days. It was something 
 much better in his eyes. It was to do something, to be 
 some one, to strike out of the everlastingly dull road 
 which lay before him and which ended in the vanishing 
 point of an insignificant old age. 
 
 He had not the very faintest conception of what that 
 business was with which he aspired to occupy himself. 
 He was totally ignorant of the methods of dealing with 
 money, and he no more knew what a draft at three 
 months meant than he could have explained the con- 
 struction of the watch he carried in his pocket. Of the 
 first principles of building he knew, if possible, even 
 
142 DON ORSINO. 
 
 less and he did not know whet!^er land in the city were 
 worth a franc or a thousand francs by the square foot. 
 But he said to himself that those things were mere 
 details, and that he could learn all he needed of them 
 in a fortnight. Courage and judgment, Del Terice had 
 said, were the chief requisites for success. Courage he 
 possessed, and he believed himself cool. He would avail 
 himself of the judgment of others until he could judge 
 for himself. 
 
 He knew very well what his father would think of the 
 whole plan, but he had no intention of concealing his 
 project. Since yesterday, he was of age and was there- 
 fore his own master to the extent of his own small re- 
 sources. His father had not the power to keep him 
 from entering upon any honourable undertaking, though 
 he might justly refuse to be responsible for the conse- 
 quences. At the worst, thought Orsino, those conse- 
 quences might be the loss of the money he had in hand. 
 Since he had nothing else to risk, he had nothing else to 
 lose. That is the light in which most inexperienced 
 people regard speculation. Orsino therefore went to his 
 father and unfolded his scheme, without mentioning Del 
 Ferice. 
 
 Sant' Ilario listened rather impatiently and laughed 
 when Orsino had finished. He did not mean to be un- 
 kind, and if he had dreamed of the effect his manner 
 would produce, he would have been more careful. But 
 he did not understand his son, as he himself had been 
 understood by his own father. 
 
 " This is all nonsense, my boy, " he answered. " It is 
 a mere passing fancy. What do you know of business 
 or architecture, or of a dozen other matters which you 
 ought to understand thoroughly before attempting any- 
 thing like what you propose? " 
 
 Orsino was silent, and looked out of the window, 
 though he was evidently listening. 
 
 " You say you want an occupation. This is not one. 
 Banking is an occupation, and architecture is a career, 
 
DON ORSINO. 143 
 
 but what we call affairs in Rome are neither one nor the 
 other. If you want to be a banker you must go into a 
 bank-aitdTde- elei:il^s work for years. If you mean to 
 follow architecture as a profession you must spend four 
 OT five' years in stud j: at the very least." 
 *^.5-S&i»-OiaQjnteiv^^\^ot done that," observed Orsino 
 coldly. 
 
 "San Giacinto has a very much better head on his 
 shoulders than you, or I, or almost any other man in 
 Eome. He has known how to make use of other men's 
 talents, and he had a rather more practical education 
 than I would have cared to give you. If he were not 
 one of the most honest men alive he would certainly 
 have turned out one of the greatest scoundrels." 
 
 " I do not see what that has to do with it, " said Orsino. 
 
 "Not much, I confess. But his early life made him 
 understand men as you and I cannot understand them, 
 and need not, for that matter." 
 
 "Then you object to my trying this? " 
 
 "I do nothing of the kind. When I object to the 
 doing of anything I prevent it, by fair words or by force. 
 I am not inclined for a pitched battle with you, Orsino, 
 and I might not get the better of you after all. I will 
 be perfectly neutral. I will have nothing to do with 
 this business. If I believed in it, I would give you all 
 the capital you could need, but I shall not diminish your 
 allowance in order to hinder you from throwing it away. 
 If you want more money for your amusements or luxu- 
 ries, say so. I am not fond of counting small expenses, 
 and I have not brought you up to count them either. Do 
 not gamble at cards any more than you can help, but if 
 you lose and must borrow, borrow of me. When I think 
 you are going too far, I will tell you so. But do not 
 count upon me for any help in this scheme of yours. 
 You will not get it. If you find yourself in a commercial 
 scrape, find your own way out of it. If you want better 
 advice than mine, go to San Giacinto. He will give you 
 a practical man's view of the case." 
 
144 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "You are frank, at all events," said Orsino, turning 
 from the window and facing his father. 
 
 "Most of us' are in this house," answered Sant' Ilario. 
 " That will make it all the harder for you to deal with 
 the scoundrels who call themselves men of business." 
 
 " I mean to try this, father," said the young man. "I 
 will go and see San Giacinto, as you suggest, and I will 
 ask his opinion. But if he discourages me I will try my 
 luck all the same. I cannot lead this life any longer. 
 I want an occupation and I will make one for myself." 
 
 " It is not an occupation that you want, Orsino. It is 
 another excitement. That is all. If you want an occu- 
 pation, study, learn something, find out what work 
 means. Or go to Saracinesca and build houses for the 
 peasants — you will do no harm there, at all events. Go 
 and drain that land in Lombardy — I can do nothing with 
 it and would sell it if I could. But that is not what you 
 want. You want an excitement for the hours of the 
 morning. Very well. You will probably find more of 
 it than you like. Try it, that is all I have to say." 
 
 Like many very just men Giovanni could state a case 
 with alarming unfairness when thoroughly convinced 
 that he was right. Orsino stood still for a moment and 
 then walked towards the door without another word. 
 His father called him back. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Orsino coldly. 
 
 Sant' Ilario held out his hand with a kindly look in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I do not want you to think that I am angry, my boy. 
 There is to be no ill feeling between us about this." 
 
 "None whatever," said the young man, though with- 
 out much alacrity, as he shook hands with his father. 
 " I see you are not angry. You do not understand me, 
 that is all." 
 
 He went out, more disappointed with the result of the 
 interview than he had expected, though he had not 
 looked forward to receiving any encouragement. He 
 had known very well what his father's views were but 
 
DON OESINO. 145 
 
 he had not foreseen that he would be so much irritated 
 by the expression of them. His determination hardened 
 and he resolved that nothing should hinder him. But 
 he was both willing and ready to consult San Giacinto, 
 and went to the latter's house immediately on leaving 
 Sant' Ilario's study. 
 
 As for Giovanni, he was dimly conscious that he had 
 made a mistake, though he did not care to acknowledge 
 it. He was a good horseman and he was aware that he 
 would have used a very different method with a restive 
 colt. But few men are wise enough to see that there 
 is only one universal principle to follow in the exertion 
 of strength, moral or physical; and instead of seeking 
 analogies out of actions familiar to them as a means of 
 accomplishing the unfamiliar, they try to discover new 
 theories of motion at every turn and are led farther and 
 farther from the right line by their own desire to reach 
 the end quickly. 
 
 "At all events," thought Sant' Ilario, "the boy's new 
 hobby will take him to places where he is not likely to 
 meet that woman." 
 
 And with this discourteous reflection upon Madame 
 d'Aranjuez he consoled himself. He did not think it 
 necessary to tell Corona of Orsino's intentions, simply 
 because he did not believe that they would lead to any- 
 thing serious, and there was no use in disturbing her 
 unnecessarily with visions of future annoyance. If 
 Orsino chose to speak of it to her, he was at liberty to 
 do so. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Orsino went directly to San Giacinto's house, and found 
 him in the room which he used for working and in which 
 he received the many persons whom he was often obliged 
 to see on business. The giant was alone and was seated 
 behind a broad polished table, occupied in writing. 
 
146 DON OESINO. 
 
 Orsino was struck by the extremely orderly arrangement 
 of everything he saw. Papers were tied together in 
 bundles of exactly like shape, which lay in two lines of 
 mathematical precision? The big inkstand was just in 
 the middle of the rows and a paper-cutter, a pen-rack 
 and an erasing knife lay side by side in front of it. The 
 walls were lined with low book-cases of a heavy and 
 severe type, filled principally with documents neatly filed 
 in volunies and marked on the back in San Giacinto's 
 clear handwriting. The only object of beauty in the 
 room was a, full-length portrait 9f Flavia by a great 
 artist, which hung above the fireplace. The rigid 
 symmetry of everything was made imposing by the size 
 of the objects — the table was larger than ordinary tables, 
 the easy-chairs were deeper, broader and lower than 
 common, the inkstand was bigger, even the penholder in 
 San Giacinto's fingers was longer and thicker than any 
 Orsino had ever seen. And yet the latter felt that there 
 was no affectation about all this. The man to whom 
 these things belonged and who used them daily was 
 himself created on a scale larger than other men. 
 
 Though he was older than Sant' Ilario and was, in 
 fact, not far from sixty years of age San Giacinto might 
 easily have passed for less than fifty. There was hardly 
 a grey thread in his short, thick, black hair, and he was 
 still as lean and strong, and almost as active, as he had 
 been thirty years earlier. The large features were per- 
 haps a little more bony and the eyes somewhat deeper 
 than they had been, but these changes lent an air of 
 dignity rather than of age to the face. 
 
 He rose to meet Orsino and then made him sit down 
 beside the table. The young man suddenly felt an un- 
 accountable sense of inferiority and hesita,ted as to how 
 he should begin. 
 
 "I suppose you want to consult me about something," 
 said San Giacinto quietly. » 
 
 "Yes. I want to ask your advice, if you will give it 
 to me — about a matter of business." 
 
DON OESINO. 147 
 
 "Willingly. What is it?" 
 
 Orsino was silent for a moment and stared at the wall. 
 He was conscious that the very small sum of which he 
 could dispose must seem even smaller in the eyes of such 
 a man, but this did not disturb him. He was oppressed 
 by San Giacinto's personality and prepared himself to 
 speak as though he had been a student undergoing oral 
 examination. He stated his case plainly, when he at 
 last spoke. He was of age and he looked forward with 
 dread to an idle life. All careers were closed to him. 
 He had fifteen thousand francs in his pocket. Could San 
 Giacinto help him to occupy himself by investing the sum 
 in a building speculation? Was the sum suificient as a 
 beginning? Those were the questions. 
 
 San Giacinto did not laugh as Sant' Ilario had done. 
 He listened very attentively to the end and then deliber- 
 ately offered Orsino a cigar and lit one himself, before 
 he delivered his answer. 
 
 " You are asking the same question which is put to me 
 very often," he said at last. "I wish I could give you 
 any encouragement. I cannot." 
 
 Orsino's face fell, for the reply was categorical. He 
 drew back a little in his chair, but said nothing. 
 
 "That is my answer," continued San Giacinto thought- 
 fully, "but when one says 'no ' to another the subject is 
 not necessarily exhausted. On the contrary, in such a. 
 case as this I cannot let you go without giving you my 
 reasons. I do not care to give my views to the public, 
 but such as they are, you are welcome to them. The 
 time is past. That is why I advise you to have nothing 
 to do with any speculation of this kind. That is the 
 best of all reasons." 
 
 "But you yourself are still engaged in this business," 
 
 objected Orsino. 
 
 "Not so deeply as you fancy. I have sold almost 
 everything which I do not consider a certainty, and am 
 selling what little I still have as fast as I can. In spec- 
 ulation there are only two important moments — the 
 
148 t>ON oftsiirb. 
 
 moment to buy and the moment to sell. In my opinion 
 this is the time to sell, and I do not think that the time 
 for buying will come again without a crisis." 
 
 "But everything is in such a flourishing state " 
 
 " No doubt it is — to-day. But no one can tell what 
 state business will be in next week, nor even to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "There is Del Ferice " 
 
 "No doubt, and a score like him," answered San 
 Giacinto, looking quietly at Orsino. "Del Ferice is a 
 banker, and I am a speculator, as you wish to be. His 
 position is different from ours. It is better to leave him 
 out of the question. Let us look at the matter logically. 
 You wish to speculate " 
 
 "Excuse me," said Orsino, interrupting him. "I 
 want to try what I can do in business." 
 
 "You wish to risk money, in one way or another. 
 You therefore wish one or more of three things — 
 money for its own sake, excitement or occupation. I 
 can hardly suppose that you want money. Eliminate 
 that. Excitement is not a legitimate aim, and you can 
 get it more safely in other ways. Therefore you want 
 occupation." 
 
 "That is precisely what I said at the beginning," 
 observed Orsino with a shade of irritation. 
 
 " Yes. But I like to reach my conclusions in my own 
 way. You are then a young man in search of an occu- 
 pation. Speculation, and what you propose is nothing 
 else, is no more an occupation than playing at the public 
 lottery and much less one than playing at baccarat. 
 There at least you are responsible for your own mis- 
 takes and in decent society you are safe from the machi- 
 nations of dishonest people. That would matter less if 
 the chances were in your favour, as they might have 
 been a year ago and as they were in mine from the 
 beginning. They are against you now, because it is too 
 late, and they are against me. I would as soon buy a 
 piece of land on credit at the present moment, as give 
 
DON OESIKO. 149 
 
 tKe whole sum in cash to the first man I met in the 
 street." 
 
 " Yet there is Montevarchi who still buys " 
 
 " Montevarchi is not worth the paper on which he signs 
 his name," said San Giacinto calmly. 
 
 Orsino uttered an exclamation of surprise and in- 
 credulity. 
 
 "You may tell him so, if you please," answered the 
 giant with perfect indifference. " If you tell any one 
 what I have said, please to tell him first, that is all. 
 He will not believe you. But in six months he will 
 know it, I fancy, as well as I know it now. He might 
 have doubled his fortune, but he was and is totally 
 ignorant of business. He thought it enough to invest 
 all he could lay hands on and that the returns would be 
 sure. He has invested forty millions and owns property 
 which he believes to be worth sixty, but which will not 
 bring ten in six months, and those remaining ten millions 
 he owes on all manner of paper, on mortgages on his 
 original property, in a dozen ways which he has for- 
 gotten himself." 
 
 " I do not see how that is possible ! " exclaimed Orsino. 
 
 "I am a plain man, Orsino, and I am your cousin. 
 You may take it for granted that I am right. Do not 
 forget that I was brought up in a hand-to-hand struggle 
 for fortune such as you cannot dream of. When I was 
 your age I was a practical man of business, and I had 
 taught myself, and it was all on such a small scale that 
 a mistake of a hundred francs made the difference be- 
 tween profit and loss. I dislike details, but I have been 
 a man of detail all my life, by force of circumstances. 
 Successful business implies the comprehension of details. 
 It is tedious work, and if you mean to try it you must 
 begin at the beginning. You ought to do so. There is 
 an enormous business before you, with considerable 
 capabilities in it. If I were in your place, I would take 
 what fell naturally to my lot. " 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
150 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "Farming. They call it agriculture in parliament, 
 because they do not know what farming means. The 
 men who think that Italy can live without farmers are 
 fools. We are not a manufacturing people any more 
 than we are a business people. The best dictator for us 
 would be a practical farmer, a ploughman like Cincin- 
 natus. Nobody who has not tried to raise wheat on an 
 Italian mountain-side knows the great difficulties or the 
 great possibilities of our country. Do you know that 
 bad as our farming is, and absurd as is our system of 
 land taxation, we are food exporters, to a small extent? 
 The beginning is there. Take my advice, be a farmer. 
 Manage one of the big estates you have amongst you 
 for five or six years. You will not do much good to 
 the land in that time, but you will learn what land really 
 means. Then go into parliament and tell people facts. 
 That is an occupation and a career as well, which can- 
 not be said of speculaition in building lots, large or 
 small. If you have any ready money keep it in govern- 
 ment bonds until you have a chance of buying something 
 worth keeping." 
 
 Orsino went away disappointed and annoyed. San 
 Giacinto's talk about farming seemed very dull to him. 
 To bury himself for half a dozen years in the country in 
 order to learn the rotation of crops and the principles of 
 land draining did not present itself as an attractive 
 career. If San Giacinto thought farming the great pro- 
 fession of the future, why did he not try it himself? 
 Orsino dismissed the idea rather indignantly, and his 
 determination to try his luck became stronger by the 
 opposition it met. Moreover he had expected .very 
 different language from San Giacinto, whose sober view 
 jarred on Orsino's enthusiastic impulse. 
 
 But he now found himself in considerable difficulty. 
 He was ignorant even of the first steps to be taken, and 
 knew no one to whom he could apply for information. 
 There was Prince Montevarchi indeed, who though he 
 was San Giacinto's b];other-in-law, seemed by the latter's 
 
DON OESINO. 151 
 
 account to have got into trouble. He did not under- 
 stand how San Giacinto could allow his wife's brother to 
 ruin himself without lending him a helping hand, but 
 San Giacinto was not the kind of man of whom people 
 ask indiscreet questions, and Orsino had heard that the 
 two men were not on the best of terms. Possibly good 
 advice had been offered and refused. Such affairs gener- 
 ally end in a breach of friendship. However that might 
 be, Orsino would not go to Montevarchi. 
 
 He wandered aimlessly about the streets, and the 
 money seemed to burn in his pocket, though he had care- 
 fully deposited it in a place of safety at home. Again 
 and again Del Ferice's story of the carpenter and his 
 two companions recurred to his mind. He wondered 
 how they had set about beginning, and he wished he 
 could ask Del Ferice himself. He could not go to the 
 man's house, but he might possibly meet him at Maria 
 Consuelo's. He was surprised to find that he had 
 almost forgotten her in his anxiety to become a man of 
 business. It was too early to call yet, and in order to 
 kill the time he went home, got a horse from the stables 
 and rode out into the country for a couple of hours. 
 
 At half-past five o'clock he entered the familiar little 
 sitting-room in the hotel. Madame d'Aranjuez was alone, 
 cutting a new book with the jewelled knife which con- 
 tinued to be the only object of the kind visible in the 
 room. She smiled as Orsino entered, and she laid aside 
 the volume as he sat down in his accustomed place. 
 
 " I thought you were not coming, " she said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You always come at five. It is half -past to-day." 
 
 Orsino looked at his watch. 
 
 "Do you notice whether I come or not?" he asked. 
 
 Maria Consuelo glanced at his face, and laughed. 
 
 "What have you been doing to-day?" she asked. 
 "That is much more interesting." 
 
 "Is it? I am afraid not. I have been listening to 
 those disagreeable things which are called truths by the 
 
152 DOK OEsmo. 
 
 people who say them. I have listened to two lectures 
 delivered by two very intelligent men for my especial 
 benefit. It seems to me that as soon as I make a good 
 resolution it becomes the duty of sensible people to 
 demonstrate that I am a fool." 
 
 " You are not in a good humour. Tell me all about it." 
 
 "And weary you with my grievances? No. Is Del 
 Ferice coming this afternoon? " 
 
 "How can I tell? He does not come often." 
 
 "I thought he came almost every day," said Orsino 
 gloomily. 
 
 He was disappointed, but Maria Consuelo did not un- 
 derstand what was the matter. She leaned forward in 
 her low seat, her chin resting upon one hand, and her 
 tawny eyes fixed on Orsino's. 
 
 "Tell me, my friend — are you unhappy? Can I do 
 anything? Will you tell me? " 
 
 It was not easy to resist the appeal. Though the two 
 had grown intimate of late, there had hitherto always 
 been something cold and reserved behind her outwardly 
 friendly manner. To-day she seemed suddenly willing 
 to be different. Her easy, graceful attitude, her soft 
 voice full of promised sympathy, above all the look in 
 her strange eyes revealed a side of her character which 
 Orsino had not suspected and which affected him in a 
 way he could not have described. 
 
 Without hesitation he told her his story, from begin- 
 ning to end, simply, without comment and without any 
 of the cutting phrases which came so readily to his 
 tongue on most occ&,sions. She listened very thought- 
 fully to the end. 
 
 " Those things are not misfortunes," she said. "But 
 they may be the beginnings of unhappiness. To be un- 
 happy is worse than any misfortune. What right has 
 your father to laugh at you? Because he never needed 
 to do anything for himself, he thinks it absurd that his 
 son should dislike the lazy life that is prepared for him. 
 It is not reasonable — it is not kind ! " 
 
DON oEsmo. 153 
 
 "Yet lie means to be both, I suppose," said Orsino 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, of course ! People always mean to be the soul of 
 logic and the paragon of charity ! Especially where their 
 owh children are concerned." 
 
 Maria Consuelo added the last words with more feel- 
 ing than seemed justified by her sympathy for Orsino's 
 woes. The moment was perhaps favourable for asking 
 a leading question about herself, and her answer might 
 have thrown light on her problematic past. But Orsino 
 was too busy with his own troubles to think of that, and 
 the opportunity slipped by and was lost. 
 
 "You know now why I want to see Del Ferice," he 
 said. " I cannot go to his house. My only chance of 
 talking to him lies here." 
 
 "And that is what brings you? You are very flat- 
 tering ! " 
 
 " Do not be unjust ! We all look forward to meeting 
 our friends in heaven." 
 
 " Very pretty. I forgive you. But I am afraid that 
 you will not meet Del Perice. I do not think he has 
 left the Chambers yet. There was to be a debate this 
 afternoon in which he had to speak." 
 
 "Does he make speeches?" 
 
 " Very good ones. I have heard him." 
 
 "I have never been inside the Chambers," observed 
 Orsino. 
 
 " You are not very patriotic. You might go there and 
 ask for Del Ferice. You could see him without going to 
 his house — without compromising your dignity. " 
 
 " Why do you laugh? " 
 
 "Because it all seems to me so absurd. You know 
 that you are perfectly free to go and see him when and 
 where you will. There is nothing to prevent you. He 
 is the one man of all others whose advice you need. He 
 has an unexceptional position in the world — no doubt he 
 has done strange things, but so have dozens of people 
 whom you know — his present reputation is excellent. 
 
154 DON OKSINO. 
 
 I say. And yet, because some twenty years ago, when 
 you were a child, he held one opinion and your father 
 held another, you are interdicted from crossing his 
 threshold ! If you can shake hands with him here, you 
 can take his hand in his own house. Is not that true?" 
 
 "Theoretically, I daresay, but not in practice. You 
 see it yourself. You have chosen one side from the 
 first, and all the people on the other side know it. As 
 a foreigner, you are not bound to either, and you can 
 know everybody in time, if you please. Society is not 
 so prejudiced as to object to that. But because you 
 begin with the Del Terice in a very uncompromising 
 way, it would take a long time for you to know the 
 Montevarchi, for instance." 
 
 " Who told you that T was' a foreigner? " asked Maria 
 Consuelo, rather abruptly. 
 
 " You yourself " 
 
 " That is good authority ! " She laughed. " I do not 
 remember — ah! because I do not speak Italian? You 
 mean that? One may forget one's own language, or for 
 that matter one may never have learned it." 
 
 "Are you Italian, then, Madame?" asked Orsino, sur- 
 prised that she should lead the conversation so directly 
 to a point which he had supposed must be reached by a 
 series of tactful approaches. 
 
 "Who knows? I am sure I do not. My father was 
 Italian. Does that constitute nationality?" 
 
 "Yes. But the woman takes the nationality of her 
 husband, I believe," said Orsino, anxious to hear more. 
 
 "Ah yes — poor Aranjuez!" Maria Consuelo's voice 
 suddenly took that sleepy tone which Orsino had heard 
 more than once. Her eyelids drooped a little and she 
 lazily opened and shut her hand, and spread out the 
 fingers and looked at them. 
 
 But Orsino was not satisfied to let the conversation 
 drop at this point, and after a moment's pause he put a 
 decisive question. 
 
 " And was Monsieur d' Aranjuez also Italian? " he asked. 
 
DON ORSINO. 155 
 
 "What does it matter?" she asked in the same indo- 
 lent tone. "Yes, since you ask me, he was Italian, 
 poor man." 
 
 Orsino was more and more puzzled. That the name 
 did not exist in Italy he was almost convinced. He 
 thought of the story of the Signor Aragno, who had 
 fallen overboard in the south seas, and then he was sud- 
 denly aware that he could not believe in anything of 
 the sort. Maria Consuelo did not betray a shade of 
 emotion, either, at the mention of her deceased husband. 
 She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands. 
 Orsino had not been rebuked for his curiosity and would 
 have asked another question if he had known how to 
 frame it. An awkward silence followed. Maria Con- 
 suelo raised her eyes slowly and looked thoughtfully into 
 Orsino's face. 
 
 "I see," she said at last. "You are curious. 1 do 
 not know whether you have any right to be — have you? " 
 
 " I wish I had ! " exclaimed Orsino thoughtlessly. 
 
 Again she looked at him in silence for some moments. 
 
 " I have not known you long enough, " she said. " And 
 if I had known you longer, perhaps it would not be dif- 
 ferent. Are other people curious, too? Do they talk 
 about me?" 
 
 " The people I know do — but they do not know you. 
 They see your name in the papers, as a beautiful Spanish 
 princess. Yet everybody is aware that there is no 
 Spanish nobleman of your name. Of course they are 
 curious. They invent stories about you, which I deny. 
 If I knew more, it would be easier." 
 
 "Why do you takei;he trouble to deny such things?" 
 
 She asked the question with a change of manner. 
 Once more she leaned forward and her face softened 
 wonderfully as she looked at him. 
 
 "Can you not guess? " he asked. 
 
 He was conscious of a very unusual emotion, not at 
 all in harmony with the imaginary character he had 
 chosen for himself, and which he generally maintained 
 
156 DON OKSINO. 
 
 ■with considerable success. Maria Consuelo was one per- 
 son when she leaned back in her chair, laughing or idly 
 listening to his talk, or repulsing the insignificant dec- 
 larations of devotion which were not even meant to be 
 taken altogether in earnest. She was pretty then, at- 
 tractive, graceful, feminine, a little artificial, perhaps, 
 and Orsino felt that he was free to like her or not, as he 
 pleased, but that he pleased to like her for the present. 
 She was quite another woman to-day, as she bent for- 
 ward, her tawny eyes growing darker and more niysteri- 
 ous every moment, her auburn hair casting wonderful 
 shadows upon her broad pale forehead, her lips not 
 closed as usual, but slightly parted, her fragrant breath 
 just stirring the quiet air Orsino breathed. Her features 
 might be irregular. It did not matter. She was beauti- 
 ful for the moment with a kind of beauty Orsino had 
 never seen, and which produced a sudden and over- 
 whelming effect upon him. 
 
 "Do you not know?" he asked again, and his voice 
 trembled unexpectedly. 
 
 " Thank you," she said softly and she touched his hand 
 almost caressingly. 
 
 But when he would have taken it, she drew back 
 instantly and was once more the woman whom he saw 
 every day, careless, indifferent, pretty. 
 
 "Why do you change so quickly?" he asked in a low 
 voice, bending towards her. " Why do you snatch your 
 hand away? Are you afraid of me?" 
 
 "Why should I be afraid? Are you dangerous?" 
 
 "You are. You may be fatal, for all I know." 
 
 " How foolish ! " she exclaimed, with a quick glance. 
 
 "You are Madame d'Aranjuez, now," he answered. 
 "We had better. change the subject." 
 
 "What do you mean? " 
 
 "A moment ago you were Consuelo," he said boldly. 
 
 " Have I given you any right to say that? " 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " I am sorry. I will be more careful. I am sure I 
 
DON OESINO. 157 
 
 cannot imagine why you should think of me at all, 
 unless when you are talking to me, and then I do not 
 wish to be called by my Christian name. I assure you, 
 you are never anything in my thoughts but His Excel- 
 lency Prince Orsino Saracinesca — with as many titles 
 after that as may belong to you." 
 
 "I have none," said Orsino. 
 
 Her speech irritated him strongly, and the illusion 
 which had been so powerful a few moments earlier all 
 but disappeared. 
 
 "Then you advise me to go and find Del Ferice at 
 Monte Citorio," he observed. 
 
 "If you like." She laughed. "There is no mistak- 
 ing your intention when you mean to change the sub- 
 ject," she added. 
 
 " You made it suflS.ciently clear that the other was dis- 
 agreeable to you." 
 
 "I did not mean to do so." 
 
 "Then in heaven's name, what do you mean, 
 Madame?" he asked, suddenly losing his head in his 
 extreme annoyance. 
 
 Maria Consuelo raised hey eyebrows in surprise. 
 
 "Why are you so angry?" she asked. "Do you 
 know that it is very rude to speak like that? " 
 
 " I cannot help it. What have I done to-day that you 
 should torment me as you do?" 
 
 "I? I torment you? My dear friend, you are quite 
 mad." 
 
 "I know I am. You make me so." 
 
 "Will you tell me how? What have I done? What 
 have I said? You Eomans are certainly the most ex- 
 traordinary people. It is impossible to please you. If 
 one laughs, you bscome tragic. If one is serious, you 
 grow gay! I wish I understood you better." 
 
 " You will end by making it impossible for me to un- 
 derstand myself," said Orsino. "You say that I am 
 changeable. Then what are you?" 
 
 "Very much the same to-day as yesterday," said Maria 
 
158 DON ORSINO. 
 
 Consuelo calmly. " And I do not suppose that I shall 
 be very different to-morrow." 
 
 "At least I will take my chance of finding that you are 
 mistaken," said Orsino, rising suddenly, and standing 
 before her. 
 
 "Are you going?" she asked, as though she were sur- 
 prised. 
 
 "Since I cannot please you." 
 
 " Since you will not." 
 
 "i do not know how." 
 
 "Be yourself — the same that you always are. You 
 are affecting to be some one else, to-day." 
 
 "I fancy it is the other way," answered Orsino, with 
 more truth than he really owned to himself. 
 
 "Then I prefer the affectation to the reality." 
 
 "As you will, Madame. Good evening." 
 
 He crossed the room to go out. She called him back. 
 
 "Don Orsino!" 
 
 He turned sharply round. 
 
 "Madame?" 
 
 Seeing that he did not move, she rose and went to 
 him. He looked down into her face and saw that it was 
 changed again. 
 
 " Are you really angry? " she asked. There was some- 
 thing girlish in the way she asked the question, and, for 
 a moment, in her whole manner. 
 
 Orsino could not help smiling. But he said nothing. 
 
 "~No, you are not," she continued. "I can see it. Do 
 you know? I am very glad. It was foolish of me to 
 tease you. You will forgive me? This once? " 
 
 "If you will give me warning the next time." He 
 found that he was looking into her eyes. 
 
 "What is the use of warning? " she asked. 
 
 They were very close together, and there was a 
 moment's silence. Suddenly Orsino forgot everything 
 and bent down, clasping her in his arms and kissing her 
 again and again. It was brutal, rough, senseless, but 
 he could not help ib. 
 
DON OKSINO. 159 
 
 Maria Consuelo uttered a short, sharp cry, more of 
 surprise, perhaps, than of horror. To Orsino's amaze- 
 ment and confusion her voice was immediately answered 
 by another, which was that of the dark and usually silent 
 maid, whom he had seen once or twice. The woman ran 
 into the room, terrified by the cry she had heard. 
 
 "Madame felt faint in crossing the room, and was 
 falling when I caught her," said Orsino, with a coolness 
 that did him credit. 
 
 And, in fact, Maria Consuelo closed her eyes as he let 
 her sink into the nearest chair. The maid fell on her 
 knees beside her mistress and began chafing her hands. 
 
 "The poor Signora!" she exclaimed. "She should 
 never be left alone ! She has not been herself since the 
 poor Signore died. You had better leave us, sir — I will 
 put her to bed when she revives. It often happens — 
 pray do not be anxious ! " 
 
 Orsino picked up his hat and left the room. 
 
 "Oh — it often happens, does it?" he said to himself 
 as he closed the door softly behind him and walked down 
 the corridor of the hotel. 
 
 He was more amazed at his own boldness than he cared 
 to own. He had not supposed that scenes of this de- 
 scription produced themselves so very unexpectedly, and, 
 as it were, without any fixed intention on the part of the 
 chief actor. He remembered that he had been very 
 angry with Madame d'Aranjuez, that she had spoken 
 half a dozen words, and that he had felt an irresistible 
 impulse to kiss her. He had done so, and he thought 
 with considerable trepidation of their next meeting. 
 She had screamed, which showed that she was outraged 
 by his boldness. It was doubtful whether she would 
 receive him again. The best thing to be done, he 
 thought, was to write her a very humble letter of 
 apology, explaining his conduct as best he could. This 
 did not accord very well with his principles, but he had 
 already transgressed them in being so excessively hasty. 
 Her eyes had certainly been provoking in the extreme, 
 
160 DON ORSINO. 
 
 and it had been impossible to resist the expression on 
 her lips. But at all events, he should have begun by- 
 kissing her hand, which she would certainly not have 
 withdrawn again — then he might have put his arm round 
 her and drawn her head to his shoulder. These were 
 preliminaries in the matter of kissing which it was un- 
 doubtedly right to observe, and he had culpably neg- 
 lected them. He had been abominably brutal, and he 
 ought to apologise. Nevertheless, he would not have 
 forfeited the recollection of that moment for all the other 
 recollections of his life, and he knew it: As he walked 
 along the street he felt a wild exhilaration such as he 
 had never known before. He owned gladly to himself 
 that he loved Maria Consuelo, and resolutely thrust 
 away the idea that his boyish vanity was pleased by the 
 snatching of a kiss. 
 
 Whatever the real nature of his delight might be it 
 was for the time so sincere that he even forgot to light a 
 cigarette in order to think over the circumstances. 
 
 Walking rapidly up the Corso he came to the Piazza 
 Colonna, and the glare of the electric light somehow re- 
 called him to himself. 
 
 " Great speech of the Honourable Del Terice ! " yelled 
 a newsboy in his ear. "Ministerial crisis! Horrible 
 murder of a grocer ! " 
 
 Orsino mechanically turned to the right in the direc- 
 tion of the Chambers. Del Ferice had probably gone 
 home, since his speech was already in print. But fate 
 had ordained otherwise. Del Ferice had corrected his 
 proofs on the spot and had lingered to talk with his 
 friends before going home. Not that it mattered much, 
 for Orsino could have found him as well on the follow- 
 ing day. His brougham was standing in front of the 
 great entrance and he himself was shaking hands with a 
 tall man under the light of the lamps. Orsino went up 
 to him. 
 
 " Could you spare me a quarter of an hour? " asked the 
 young man in a voice constrained by excitement. He 
 
DON OESINO. 161 
 
 felt that he was embarked at last upon his great enter- 
 prise. 
 
 Del Ferice looked up in some astonishment. He had 
 reason to dread the quarrelsome disposition of the Sara- 
 cinesca as a family, and he wondered what Orsino 
 wanted. 
 
 "Certainly, certainly, Don Orsino," he answered, with 
 a particularly bland smile. " Shall we drive, or at least 
 sit in my carriage? I am a little fatigued with my exer- 
 tions to-day." 
 
 The tall man bowed and strolled away, biting the end 
 of an unlit cigar. 
 
 "It is a matter of business," said Orsino, before enter- 
 ing the carriage. " Can you help me to try my luck — in 
 a very small way — in one of the building enterprises you 
 manage?" 
 
 "Of course I can, and will," answered Del Ferice, 
 more and more astonished. " After you, my dear Don 
 Orsino, after you," he repeated, pushing the young man 
 into the brougham. "Quiet streets — till I stop you," 
 he said to the footman, as he himself got in. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Del Eerice was surprised beyond measure at Orsino's 
 request, and was not guilty of any profoundly nefarious 
 intention when he so readily acceded to it. His own 
 character made him choose as a rule to refuse nothing 
 that was asked of him, though his promises were not 
 always fuliilled afterwards. To express his own willing- 
 ness to help those who asked, was of course not the same 
 as asserting his power to give assistance when the time 
 should come. In the present case he did not even make 
 up his mind which of two courses he woiild ultimately 
 pursue. Orsino came to him with a small sum of ready 
 
 M 
 
162 DON OESINO. 
 
 money in his hand. Del Terice had it in his power to 
 make him lose that sum, and a great deal more besides, 
 thereby causing the boy endless trouble with his family; 
 or else the banker could, if he pleased, help him to a 
 very considerable success. His really superior talent for 
 diplomacy inclined him to choose the latter plan, but he 
 was far too cautious to make any hasty decision. 
 
 The brougham rolled on through quiet and ill-lighted 
 streets, and Del Ferice . leaned back in his corner, not 
 listening at all to Orsino's talk, though he occasionally 
 uttered a polite though utterly unintelligible syllable or 
 two which might mean anything agreeable to his com- 
 panion's views. The situation was easy enough to un- 
 derstand, and he had grasped it in a moment. What 
 Orsino might say was of no importance whatever, but 
 the consequences of any action on Del Ferice's part 
 might be serious and lasting. 
 
 Orsino stated his many reasons for wishing to engage 
 in business, as he had stated them more than once 
 already during the day and during" the past weeks, and 
 when he had finished he repeated his first question. 
 
 " Can you help me to try my liiek? " he asked. 
 
 Del Ferice awoke from his reverie with characteristic 
 readiness and realised that he must say something. His 
 voice had never been strong and he leaned out of his 
 corner of the carriage in order to speak near Orsino's 
 ear. 
 
 "I am delighted with all you say," he began, "and I 
 scarcely need repeat that my services are altogether at 
 your disposal. The only question is, how are we to 
 begin? The sum you mention is certainly not large, but 
 that does not matter. You would have little difficulty 
 in raising as many hundreds of thousands as you have 
 thousands, if money were necessary. But in business of 
 this kind the only ready money needed is for stamp duty 
 and for the wages of workmen, and the banks advance 
 what is necessary for the latter purpose, in small sums 
 on notes of hand guaranteed by a general mortgage. 
 
DON ORSINO. 163 
 
 Wlten you have paid the stamp duties, you may go to the 
 club and lose the balance of your capital at baccarat if 
 you please. The loss in that direction -will not affect 
 your credit as a contractor. All that is very simple. 
 You wish to succeed, however, not at cards, but at busi- 
 ness. That is the difBculty." 
 
 Del Ferice paused. 
 
 "That is not very clear to me," observed Orsino. 
 
 "No — no," answered Del Perice thoughtfully. "No 
 — I daresay it is not so very clear. I wish I could make 
 it clearer. Speculation means gambling only when the 
 speculator is a gambler. Of course there are successful 
 gamblers in the world, but there are not many of them. 
 I read somewhere the other day that business was the 
 art of handling other people's money. The remark is 
 not particularly true. Business is the art of creating a 
 value where none has yet existed. That is what you wish 
 to do. I do not think that a Saracinesca would take 
 pleasure in turning over money not belonging to him." 
 
 " Certainly not ! " exclaimed Orsino. " That is usury. " 
 
 "Not exactly, but it is banking; and banking, it is 
 quite true, is usury within legal bounds. There is no 
 question of that here. The operation is simple in the 
 extreme. I sell you a piece of land on the understand- 
 ing that you will build upon it, and instead of payment 
 you give me a mortgage. I lend you money from month 
 to month in small sums at a small interest, to pay for 
 material and labour. You are only responsible upon one 
 point. The money is to be used for the purpose stated. 
 When the building is finished you sell it. If you sell 
 it for cash, you pay off the mortgage, and receive the 
 difference. If you sell it with the mortgage, the buyer 
 becomes the mortgager and only pays you the difference, 
 which remains yours, out and out. That is the whole 
 process from beginning to end." 
 
 " How wonderfully simple ! " 
 
 "It is almost primitive in its simplicity," answered 
 Del Ferice gravely. " But in every case two difficulties 
 
164 DON OESINO. 
 
 present themselves, and I am bound to tell you that they 
 are serious ones." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 " You must know how to buy in the right part of the 
 city and you must have a competent assistant. The two 
 conditions are indispensable." 
 
 "What sort of an assistant? " asked Orsino. 
 
 "A practical man. If possible, an architect, who will 
 then have a share of the profits instead of being paid for 
 his work."' 
 
 "Is it very hard to find such a person? " 
 
 "It is not easy." 
 
 "Do you think you could help me? " 
 
 "I do not know. I am assuming a great responsi- 
 bility in doing so. You do not seem to realise that, 
 Don Orsino." 
 
 Del Ferice laughed a little in his quiet way, but Orsino 
 was silent. It was the first time that the banker had 
 reminded him of the vast difference in their social and 
 political positions. 
 
 "I do not think it would be very wise of me to 
 help you into such a business as this," said Del Ferice 
 cautiously. "I speak quite selfishly and for my own 
 sake. Success is never certain, and it would be a great 
 injury to me if you failed. " 
 
 He was beginning to make up his mind. 
 
 "Why?" asked Orsino. His own instincts of gener- 
 osity were aroused. He would certainly not do Del 
 Ferice an injury if he could help it, nor allow him to 
 incur the risk of one. 
 
 "If you fail," answered the other, "all Kome will say 
 that I have intentionally brought about your failure. 
 You know how people talk. Thousands will become 
 millions and I shall be accused of having plotted the 
 destruction of your family, because your father once 
 wounded me in a duel, nearly five and twenty years 
 ago." 
 
 " How absurd ! " 
 
DON ORSINO. 165 
 
 " No, no. It is not absurd. I am afraid I have the 
 reputation of being vindictive. Well, well — it is in bad 
 taste to talk of oneself. I am good at hating, perhaps, 
 but I have always felt that I preferred peace to war, and 
 now I am growing old. I am not what I once was, Don 
 Orsino, and I do not like quarrelling. But I would not 
 allow people to say impertinent things about me, and if 
 you failed and lost money, I should be abused by your 
 friends, and perhaps censured by my own. Do you see? 
 Yes, I am selfish. I admit it. You must forgive that 
 weakness in me. I like peace." 
 
 "It is very natural," said Orsino, "and I have no 
 right to put you in danger of the slightest inconvenience. 
 But, after all, why need I appear before the public?" 
 
 Del Ferice smiled in the dark. 
 
 " True, " he answered. " You could-establish an anony- 
 mous firm, so to say, and the documents would be a secret 
 between you and me and the notary. Of course there 
 are many ways of managing such an affair quietly." 
 
 He did not add that the secret could only be kept so 
 long as Orsino was successful. It seemed a pity, to damp 
 so much good enthusiasm. 
 
 "We will do that, then, if you will show me how. 
 My ambition is not to see my name on a door-plate, but 
 to be really occupied." 
 
 " I understand, I understand," said Del Ferice thought- 
 fully. " I must ask you to give me until to-morrow to 
 consider the matter. It needs a little thought." 
 
 "Where can I find you, to hear your decision?" 
 
 Del Ferice was silent for a moment. 
 
 "I think I once met you late in the afternoon at 
 Madame d'Aranjuez's. We might manage to meet there 
 to-mofrow and come away together. Shall we name an 
 hour? Would it suit you?" 
 
 "Perfectly," answered Orsino with alacrity. 
 
 The idea of meeting Maria Consuelo alone was very 
 disturbing in his present state of mind. He felt that 
 he had lost his balance in his relations with her, and 
 
166 DON OESINO. 
 
 that in order to regain it he must see her in the presence 
 of a third person, if only for a quarter of an hour. It 
 would be easier, then, to resume the former intercourse 
 and to say whatever he should determine upon saying. 
 If she were offended, she would at least not show it in 
 any marked way before Del Ferice. Orsino's existence, 
 he thought, was becoming complicated for the first time, 
 and though he enjoyed the vague sensation of impending 
 difficulty, he wanted as many opportunities as possible 
 of reviewing the situation and of meditating upon each 
 new move. 
 
 He got out of Del Feriee's carriage at no great distance 
 from his own home, and after a few words of very sincere 
 thanks walked slowly away. He found it very hard to 
 arrange his thoughts in any consecutive order, though 
 he tried several methods of self-analysis, and repeated to 
 himself that he had experienced a great happiness and 
 was probably on the threshold of a great success. These 
 two reflections did not help him much. The happiness 
 had been of the explosive kind, and the success in the 
 business matter was more than problematic, as well as 
 certainly distant in the future. 
 
 He was very restless and craved the immediate excite- 
 ment of further emotions, so that he would certainly have 
 gone to the club that night, had not the fear of losing 
 his small and precious capital deterred him. He thought 
 of all that was coming and he determined to be careful, 
 even sordid if necessary, rather than lose his chance of 
 making the great attempt. Besides, he would cut a poor 
 figure on the morrow if he were obliged to admit to Del 
 Ferice that he had lost his fifteen thousand francs and 
 was momentarily penniless. He accordingly shut him- 
 self up in his own room at an early hour, and smoked in 
 solitude until he was sleepy, reviewing the various events 
 of the day, or trying to do so, though his mind reverted 
 constantly to the one chief event of all, to the unaccounta- 
 ble outburst of passion by which he had perhaps offended 
 Maria Consuelo beyond forgiveness. With all his affecta- 
 
DON OESINO. 167 
 
 tion of cynicism he had not learned that sin is easy only 
 because it meets with such very general encouragement. 
 Even if he had been aware of that undeniable fact, the 
 knowledge might not have helped him very materially. 
 
 The hours passed very slowly during the next day, 
 and even when the appointed time had come, Orsino 
 allowed another quarter of an hour to go by before he 
 entered the hotel and ascended to the little sitting-room 
 in which Maria Consuelo received. He meant to be sure 
 that Del Ferice was there before entering, but he was 
 too proud to watch for the latter' s coming, or to inquire 
 of the porter whether Maria Consuelo were alone or not. 
 It seemed simpler in every way to appear a little late. 
 
 But Del Ferice was a busy man and not always 
 punctual, so that to Orsiuo's considerable confusion, he 
 found Maria Consuelo alone, in spite of his precaution. 
 He was so much surprised as to become awkward, for 
 the first time in his life, and he felt the blood rising in 
 his face, dark as he was. 
 
 "Will you forgive me?" he asked, almost timidly, as 
 he held out his hand. 
 
 Maria Consuelo's tawny eyes looked curiously at him. 
 Then she smiled suddenly. 
 
 "My dear child," she said, "you should not do such 
 things! It is very foolish, you know." 
 
 The answer was so unexpected and so exceedingly 
 humiliating, as Orsino thought at first, that he grew pale 
 and drew back a little. But Maria Consuelo took no 
 notice of his behaviour, and settled herself in her ac- 
 customed chair. 
 
 "Did you find Del Ferice last night?" she asked, 
 changing the subject without the least hesitation. 
 
 "Yes," answered Orsino. 
 
 Almost before the word was spoken there was a knock 
 at the door and Del Ferice appeared. Orsino's face 
 cleared, as though something pleasant had happened, 
 and Maria Consuelo observed the fact. She concluded, 
 naturally enough, that the two men had agreed to meet 
 
168 DON OKSINO. 
 
 in her sitting-room, and she resented the punctuality 
 which she supposed they had displayed in coming almost 
 together, especially after what had happened on the 
 preceding day. She noted the cordiality with which 
 they greeted each other and she felt sure that she was 
 right. On the other hand she could not afford to show 
 the least coldness to Del Ferice, lest he should suppose 
 that she was annoyed at being disturbed in her conversa- 
 tion with Orsino. The situation was irritating to her, 
 but she made the best of it and began to talk to Del 
 Terice about the speech he had made on the previous 
 evening. He had spoken well, and she found it easy to 
 be just and flattering at the same time. 
 
 " It must be an immense satisfaction to speak as you 
 do," said Orsino, wishing to say something at least 
 agreeable. 
 
 Del Ferice acknowledged the compliment by a depreca- 
 tory gesture. 
 
 " To speak as some of my colleagues can — yes — it must 
 be a great satisfaction. But Madame d'Aranjuez exag- 
 gerates. And, besides, I only make speeches when I am 
 called upon to do so. Speeches are wasted in nine cases 
 out of ten, too. They are, if I may say so, the music at 
 the political ball. Sometimes the guests will dance, and 
 sometimes they will not, but the musicians must try and 
 suit the taste of the great invited. The dancing itself is 
 the thing." 
 
 "Deeds not words," suggested Maria Consuelo, glanc- 
 ing at Orsino, who chanced to be looking at her. 
 
 " That is a good motto enough, " he said gloomily. 
 
 " Deeds may need explanation, post facto, " remarked 
 Del Ferice, unconsciously making such a direct allusion 
 to recent events that Orsino looked sharply at him, and 
 Maria Consuelo smiled. 
 
 "That is true," she said. 
 
 " And when you need any one to help you, it is neces- 
 sary to explain your purpose beforehand," observed Del 
 Ferice. " That is what happens so often in polities, and 
 
DON ORSINO. 169 
 
 in other affairs of life as well. If a man takes money 
 from me -without my consent, he steals, but if I agree to 
 his taking it, the transaction becomes a gift or a loan. 
 A despotic government steals, a constitutional one borrows 
 or receives free offerings. The fact that the despot pays 
 interest on a part of what he steals raises him to the 
 position of the magnanimous brigand who leaves his vic- 
 tims just enough money to carry them to the nearest 
 town. Possibly it is after all a quibble of definitions, 
 and the difference may not be so great as it seems at 
 first sight. But then, all morality is but the shadow cast 
 on one side or the other of a definition." 
 
 "Surely that is not your political creed! " said Maria 
 Consuelo. 
 
 "Certainly not, Madame, certainly not, " answered Del 
 Ferice in gentle protest. " It is not a creed at all, but 
 only a very poor explanation of the way in which most 
 experienced people look upon the events of their day. 
 The idea in which we believe is very different from the 
 results it has brought about, and very much higher, and 
 very much better. But the results are not all bad either. 
 Unfortunately the bad ones are on the surface, and the 
 good ones, which are enduring, must be sought in places 
 where the honest sunshine has not yet dispelled the early 
 shadows." 
 
 Maria Consuelo smiled faintly, and the slight cast in 
 her eyes was more than usually apparen^ks though her 
 attention were wandering. Orsino said nothing, and won- 
 dered why Del Ferice continued to talk. The latter, 
 indeed, was allowing himself to run on because neither 
 of his hearers seemed inclined to make a remark which 
 might serve to turn the conversation, and he began to 
 suspect that something had occurred before his coming 
 which had disturbed their equanimity. 
 
 He presently began to talk of people instead of ideas, 
 for he had no intention of being thought a bore by 
 Madame d'Aranjuez, and the man who is foolish enough 
 to talk of anything but his neighbours, when he has more 
 
170 DON-ORSINO. 
 
 than one hearer, is in danger of being numbered with the 
 tormentors. 
 
 Half an hour passed quickly enough after the common 
 chord had been struck, and Del Ferice and Orsino ex- 
 changed glances of intelligence, meaning to go away- 
 together as had been agreed. Del Ferice rose first, and 
 Orsino took up his hat. To his surprise and consterna- 
 tion Maria Consuelo made a quick and imperative sign 
 to him to remain. Del Ferice's dull blue eyes saw most 
 things that happened within the range of their vision, 
 and neither the gesture nor the look that accompanied it 
 escaped him. 
 
 Orsino's position was extremely awkward. He had 
 put Del Ferice to some inconvenience on the understand- 
 ing that they were to go away together and did not wish 
 to offend him by not keeping his engagement. On the 
 other hand it was next to impossible to disobey Maria 
 Consuelo, and to explain his difficulty to Del Ferice was 
 wholly out of the question. He almost wished that the 
 latter might have seen and understood the signal. But 
 Del Ferice made no sign and took Maria Consuelo's 
 offered hand, in the act of leavetaking. Orsino grew 
 desperate and stood beside the two, holding his hat. 
 Del Ferice turned to shake hands with him also. 
 
 " But perhaps you are going too, " he said, with a dis- 
 tinct interrogation. 
 
 Orsino glanced at Maria Consuelo as though imploring 
 her .permission to take his leave, but her face was im- 
 penetrable, calm and indifferent. 
 
 Del Ferice understood perfectly what was taking place, 
 but he found a moment while Orsino hesitated. If the 
 latter had known how completely he was in Del Ferice's 
 power throughout the little scene, he would have then 
 and there thrown over his financial schemes in favour of 
 Maria Consuelo. But Del Ferice's quiet, friendly man- 
 ner did not suggest despotism, and he did not suffer 
 Orsino's embarrassment to last more than five seconds. 
 
 "I have a little proposition to make," said the fat 
 
DON ORSINO. 171 
 
 count, turning again to Maria Consuelo. "My wife and 
 I are alone this evening. Will you not come and dine 
 with us, Madame? And you, Don Orsino, will you not 
 come too? We shall just make a party of four, if you 
 will both come." 
 
 " I sball be enchanted ! " exclaimed Maria Consuelo 
 without hesitation. 
 
 " I shall be delighted ! " answered Orsino with an 
 alacrity which surprised himself. 
 
 "At eight then," said Del Feride, shaking hands with 
 him again, and in a moment he was gone. 
 
 Orsino was too much confused, and too much delighted 
 at having escaped so easily from his difficulty to realise 
 the importance of the step he was taking in going to Del 
 Feriee's house, or to ask himself why the latter had so 
 opportunely extended the invitation. He sat down in 
 his place with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "You have compromised yourself for ever," said 
 Maria Consuelo with a scornful laugh. "You, the 
 blackest of the Black, are to be numbered henceforth 
 with the acquaintances of Count Del Ferice and Donna 
 TuUia." 
 
 "What difference does it make? Besides, I could not 
 have done otherwise." 
 
 "You might have refused the dinner." 
 
 " I could not possibly have done that. To accept was 
 the only way out of a great difficulty." 
 
 "What difficulty?" asked Maria Consuelo relentlessly. 
 
 Orsino was silent, wondering how he could explain, 
 as explain he must, without offending her. 
 
 "You should not do such things," she said suddenly. 
 "I will not always forgive you." 
 
 A gleam of light which, indeed, promised little for- 
 giveness, flashed in her eyes. 
 
 "What things?" asked Orsino. 
 
 "Do not pretend that you think me so simple," she 
 said, in a tone of irritation. " You and Del Ferice come 
 here almost at the same moment. When he goes, you 
 
172 DON OKSINO. 
 
 show the vitmost anxiety to go too. Of course you have 
 agreed to meet here. It is evident. You might have 
 chosen the steps of the hotel for your place of meeting 
 instead of my sitting-room." 
 
 The colour rose slowly in her cheeks. She, was hand- 
 some when she was angry. 
 
 " If I had imagined that you could be displeased " 
 
 "Is it so surprising? Have you forgotten what hap- 
 pened yesterday? You should be on your knees, asking 
 my forgiveness for that — ^and instead, you make a con- 
 venience of your visit to-day in order to meet a man of 
 business. You have very strange ideas of what is due 
 to a woman." 
 
 " Del Ferice suggested it," said Orsino, " and I accepted 
 the suggestion." 
 
 " What is Del Ferice to me, that I should be made the 
 victim of his suggestions, as you call them? Besides, 
 he does not know anything of your folly of yesterday, 
 and he has no right to suspect it." 
 
 "I cannot tell you how sorry I am." 
 
 " And yet you ought to tell me, if you expect that I 
 will forget all this. You cannot? Then be so good as 
 to do the only other sensible thing in your power, and 
 leave me as soon as possible." 
 
 " Forgive me, this once ! " Orsino entreated in great 
 distress, but not finding any words to express his sense 
 of humiliation. 
 
 "You are not eloquent," she said scornfully. "You 
 had better go. Do not come to the dinner this evening, 
 either. I would rather not see you. You can easily 
 make an excuse." 
 
 Orsino recovered himself suddenly. 
 
 " I will not go away now, and I will not give up the 
 dinner to-night," he said quietly. 
 
 "I cannot make you do either — but I can leave you," 
 said Maria Consuelo, with a movement as though she 
 were about to rise from her chair. 
 
 "You will not do that," Orsino answered. 
 
DON ORSINO. 173 
 
 She raised her eyehro-ws in real or affected surprise at 
 his persistence. 
 
 " You seem very sure of yourself, " she said. " Do not 
 be so sure of me." 
 
 "I am sure that I love you. Nothing else matters." 
 He leaned forward and took her hand, so quickly that 
 she had not time to prevent him. She tried to draw it 
 away, but he held it fast. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she cried. " I will call, if you do not ! " 
 
 " Call all Eome if you will, to see me ask your for- 
 giveness. Consuelo — do not be so hard and cruel — if 
 you only knew how I love you, you would be sorry for 
 me, you would see how I hate myself, how I despise my- 
 self for all this " 
 
 " You might show a little more feeling," she said, mak- 
 ing a final effort to disengage her hand, and then relin- 
 quishing the struggle. 
 
 Orsino wondered whether he were really in love with 
 her or not. Somehow, the words he sought did not rise 
 to his lips, and he was conscious that his speech was 
 not of the same temperature, so to say, as his actions. 
 There was something in Maria Consuelo's manner which 
 disturbed him disagreeably, like a cold draught blowing 
 unexpectedly through a warm room. Still he held her 
 hand and endeavoured to rise to the occasion. 
 
 " Consuelo ! " he cried in a beseeching tone. " Do not 
 send me away — see how I am suffering — it is so easy for 
 you to say that you forgive ! " 
 
 She looked at him a moment, and her eyelids drooped 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Will you let me go, if I forgive you?" she asked in 
 a low voice. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I forgive you then. Well? Do you still hold my 
 hand?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He leaned forward and tried to draw her toward him, 
 looking into her eyes. She yielded a little, and their 
 
174 DON OESINO. 
 
 faces came a little nearer to each other, and still a little 
 nearer. All at once a deep blush rose in her cheeks, she 
 turned her head away and drew back quickly. 
 
 " Not for all the world ! " she exclaimed, in a tone that 
 was new to Orsino's ear. 
 
 He tried to take her hand again, but she would not 
 give it. 
 
 "No, no! Gro — you are not to be trusted! " she cried, 
 avoiding, him. 
 
 "Why are you so unkind?" he asked, almost passion- 
 ately. 
 
 "I have been kiiid enough for this day," she answered. 
 "Pray go — do not stay any longer — I may regret it." 
 
 "My staying?" 
 
 "No — my kindness. And do not come again for the 
 present. I would rather see you at Del Ferice's than 
 here." 
 
 Orsino was quite unable to understand her behaviour, 
 and an older and more experienced man might have been 
 almost as much puzzled as he. A long silence followed, 
 during which he sat quite still and she looked steadily 
 at the cover of a book which lay on the table. 
 
 " Please go, " she said at last, in a voice which was not 
 unkind. 
 
 Orsino rose from his seat and prepared to obey her, 
 reluctantly enough and feeling that he was out of tune 
 with himself and with everything. 
 
 "Will you not even tell me why you send me away?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Because I wish to be alone," she answered. "Good- 
 bye." 
 
 She did not look up as he left the room, and when he 
 was gone she did not move from her place, but sat as 
 she had sat before, staring at the yellow cover of the 
 novel on the table. 
 
 Orsino went home in a very unsettled frame of mind, 
 and was surprised to find that the lighted streets looked 
 less bright and cheerful than on the previous evening, 
 
DON OESINO. 175 
 
 and his own immediate prospects far less pleasing. He 
 was angry with himself for having been so foolish, as to 
 make his visit to Maria Consuelo a mere appointment 
 with Del Ferice, and he was surprised beyond measure 
 to find himself suddenly engaged in a social acquaint- 
 ance with the latter, when he had only meant to enter 
 into relations of business with him. Yet it did not occur 
 to him that Del Ferice had in any way entrapped him 
 into accepting the invitation. Del Ferice had saved him 
 from a very awkward situation. Why? Because Del 
 Ferice had seen the gesture Maria Consuelo had made, 
 and had understood it, and wished to give Orsino another 
 opportunity of discussing his project. But if Del Ferice 
 had seen the quick sign, he had probably interpreted it 
 in a way compromising to Madame d'Aranjuez. This 
 was serious, though it was assuredly not Orsino's fault if 
 she compromised herself. She might have let him go 
 without question, and since an explanation of some 
 sort was necessary she might have waited until the next 
 day to demand it of him. He resented what she had 
 done, and yet within the last quarter of an hour, he had 
 been making a declaration of love to her. He was further 
 conscious that the said declaration had been wholly lack- 
 ing in spirit, in passion and even in eloquence. He 
 probably did not love her after all, and with an attempt 
 at his favourite indifference he tried to laugh at himself. 
 
 But the effort was not successful, and he felt some- 
 thing approaching to pain as he realised that there was 
 nothing to laugh at. He remembered her eyes and her 
 face and the tones of her voice, and he imagined that if 
 he could turn back now and see her again, he could say 
 in one breath such things as would move a statue to 
 kisses. The very phrases rose to his lips and he repeated 
 them to himself as he walked along. 
 
 Most unaccountable of all had been Maria Consuelo's 
 own behaviour. Her chief preoccupation seemed to have 
 been to get rid of him as soon as possible. She had been 
 very seriously offended with him to-day, much more 
 
176 DON OESINO. 
 
 deeply, indeed, than yesterday, though the cause ap- 
 peared to his inexperience to be a far less adequate one. 
 It was evident, he thought, that she had notjiireally par- 
 doned.his want of tact, but had yielded to the necessity 
 of giving a reluctant forgiveness, merely because she did 
 not wish to break off her acquaintance with him. On 
 the other hand, she had allowed him to say again and 
 again that he loved her, and she had not forbidden him 
 to call her by her name. 
 
 He had always heard that it was hard to understand 
 women, and he began to believe it. There was one 
 hypothesis which he had not considered. It was faintly 
 possible that she loved him already, though he was slow 
 to believe that, his vanity lying in another direction. 
 But even if she did, matters were not clearer. The sup- 
 position could not account for her sending him away so 
 abruptly and with such eviderft' intention. If she loved 
 him, she would naturally, he supposed, wish him to stay 
 as long as possible. She had only wished to keep him 
 long enough to tell him how angry she was. He re- 
 sented that again, for he was in the humour to resent 
 most things. 
 
 It was all extremely complicated, and Orsino began to 
 think that he might find the complication less interest- 
 ing than he had expected a few hours earlier. He had 
 little time for reflection either, since he was to meet 
 both Maria Consuelo and Del Ferice at dinner. He felt 
 as though the coming evening were in a measure to 
 decide his future existence, and it was indeed destined 
 to exercise a great influence upon his life, as any person 
 not disturbed by the anxieties which beset him might 
 easily have foreseen. 
 
 Before leaving the house he made an excuse to his 
 mother, saying that he had unexpectedly been asked to 
 dine with friends, and at the appointed hour he rang at 
 Del Ferice's door. 
 
DON OESINO. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Orsino looked about him witli some curiosity as he 
 entered Del Ferice's abode. He had never expected to 
 find himself the guest of Donna TuUia and her husband 
 and when he took the robust cou-ntess's hand he was in- 
 clined to wish that the whole affair might turn out to be 
 a dream. In vain he repeated to himself that he was no 
 longer a boy, but a grown man, of age in the eyes of the 
 law to be responsible for his own actions, and old enough 
 in fact to take what steps he pleased for the accomplish- 
 ment of his own ends. He found no solace in the reflec- 
 tion, and he could not rid himself of the idea that he had 
 got himself into a very boyish scrape. It would indeed 
 have been very easy to refuse Del Ferice's invitation and 
 to write him a note within the hour explaining vaguely 
 that circumstances beyond his control obliged him to 
 ask another interview for the discussion of business 
 matters. But it was too late now. He was exchanging 
 indifferent reinarks with Donna TuUia, while Del Ferice 
 looked on benignantly, and all three waited for Madame 
 d'Aranjuez. 
 
 Five minutes had not elapsed before she came, and her 
 appearance momentarily dispelled Orsino's annoyance 
 at his own rashness. He had never before seen her 
 dressed for the evening, and he had not realised how 
 much to her advantage the change from the ordinary 
 costume, or the inevitable "tea-garment," to a dinner 
 gown would be. She was assuredly not over-dressed, 
 for she wore black without colours and her only orna- 
 ment was a single string of beautiful pearls which Donna 
 TuUia believed to be false, but which Orsino accepted as 
 real. Possibly he knew even more about pearls than 
 the countess, for his m'other had many and wore them 
 often, whereas Donna TuUia preferred diamonds and 
 rubies. But his eyes did not linger on the necklace, for 
 
 IT 
 
178 DON OKSINO. 
 
 Maria Consuelo's whole presence affected him strangely. 
 There was something light-giving and even dazzling 
 about her which he had not expected, and he understood 
 for the first time that the language of the newspaper 
 paragraphs was not so grossly flattering as he had sup- 
 posed. In spite of the great artistic defects of feature, 
 which could not long escape an observer of ordinary 
 taste, it was clear that Maria Consuelo must always be 
 a striking and central figure in any social assembly, 
 great or small. There had been moments in Orsino's 
 acquaintance with her, when he had thought her really 
 beautiful; as she now appeared, one of those moments 
 seemed to have become permanent. He thought of what 
 he had dared on the preceding day, his vanity was 
 pleased and his equanimity restored. With a sense of 
 pride which was very far from being delicate and was 
 by no means well founded, he watched her as shp walked 
 in to dinner before him, leaning on Del Ferice's arm. 
 
 "Beautiful — eh? I see you think so," whispered 
 Donna TuUia in his ear. 
 
 The countess treated him at once as an old acquaint- 
 ance, which put him at his ease, while it annoyed his 
 conscience. 
 
 "Very beautiful," he answered, with a grave nod. 
 
 "And so mysterious," whispered the countess again, 
 just as they reached the door of the dining-room. " She 
 is very fascinating — take care ! " 
 
 She tapped his arm familiarly with her fan and 
 laughed, as he left her at Ker seat. 
 
 " What are you two laughing at?" asked Del Ferice, 
 smiling pleasantly as he surveyed the six oysters he 
 found upon his plate, and considered which should be 
 left until the last as the crowning tit-bit. He was fond 
 of good eating, and especially fond of oysters as an intro- 
 duction to the feast. 
 
 " Wliat we were laughing at? How indiscreet you are, 
 Ugo ! You always want to find out all my little secrets. 
 Consuelo, my dear, do you like oysters, or do you not? 
 
DON OKSINO. 179 
 
 That is the question. You do, I know — a little lemon 
 and a very little red pepper — I love red, even to adoring 
 cayenne ! " 
 
 Orsino glanced at Madame d'Aranjuez, for he was sur- 
 prised to hear Donna TuUia call her by her first name. 
 He had not known that the two women had reached the 
 first halting place of intimacy. 
 
 Maria Consuelo smiled rather vaguely as she took the 
 advice in the shape of lemon juice and pepper. Del 
 Ferice could not interrupt his enjoyment of the oysters 
 by words, and Orsino waited for an opportunity of say- 
 ing something witty. 
 
 "I have lately formed the highest opinion of the 
 ancient Eomans," said Donna TuUia, addressing him. 
 " Do you know why? " 
 
 Orsino professed his ignorance. 
 
 " Ugo tells me that in a recent excavation twenty cart- 
 loads of oyster shells were discovered behind one house. 
 Think of that! Twenty cartloads to a single house! 
 What a family must have lived there — indeed the Eomans 
 were a great people ! " 
 
 Orsino thought that Donna TuUia herself might pass 
 for a heroine in future ages, provided that the shells of 
 her victims were deposited together in a safe place. He 
 laughed politely and hoped that the conversation might 
 not turn upon archaeology, which was not his strong 
 poiat. 
 
 " I wonder how long it will be before modern Eome is 
 excavated and the foreigner of the future pays a franc 
 to visit the ruins of the modern house of parliament," 
 suggested Maria Consuelo, who had said nothing as yet. 
 
 " At the present rate of progress, I should think about 
 two years would be enough," answered Donna TuUia. 
 "But Ugo says we are a great nation. Ask him." 
 
 "Ah, my angel, you do not understand those things," 
 said Del Ferice. "How shall I explain? There is no 
 development without decay of the useless parts. The 
 snake casts its old skin before it appears with a new one. 
 
180 DON ORSINO. 
 
 And there can be no business without an occasional crisis. 
 Unbroken fair weather ends in a dead calm. Why do 
 you take such a gloomy view, Madame?" 
 
 " One should never talk of things — only' people are 
 amusing," said Donna TuUia, before Madame d'Aranjuez 
 could answer. "Whom have you seen to-day, Consuelo? 
 And you, Don Orsino? And you, Ugo? Are we to talk 
 for ever of oysters, and business arid snakes? Come, 
 tell me, all of you, what everybody has told you. There 
 must be something new. Of course that poor Carantoni 
 is going to be married again, and the Princess Befana is 
 dying, as usual, and the same dear old people have run 
 away with each other, and all that. Of course. . I wish 
 things were not always just going to happen. One 
 would like to hear what is said on the day after the 
 events which never come off. It would be a novelty." 
 
 Donna TuUia loved talk and noise, and gossip above 
 all things, and she was not quite at her ease. The news 
 that Orsino was to come to dinner had taken her breath 
 away. Ugo had advised her to be natural, and she was 
 doing her best to follow his advice. 
 
 " As for me," he said, " I have been tormented all day, 
 and have spent but one pleasant half hour. I was so 
 fortunate as to find Madame d'Aranjuez at home, but 
 that was enough to indemnify me for many sacrifices." 
 
 "I cannot do better than say the same," observed 
 Orsino, though with far less truth. " I believe I have 
 read through a new novel, but I do not remember the 
 title and T have forgotten the story." 
 
 " How satisfactory ! " exclaimed Maria Consuelo, with 
 a little scorn. 
 
 "It is the only way to read novels," answered Orsino, 
 " for it leaves them always new to you, and the same one 
 may be made to last several weeks." 
 
 " I have heard it said that one should fear the man of 
 one book," observed Maria Consuelo, looking at him. 
 
 " For my part, I am more inclined to fear the woman 
 of many." 
 
DON ORSINO. 181 
 
 "Do you read much, my dear Consuelo?" asked Donna 
 TuUia, laughing. 
 
 "Perpetually." 
 
 "And is Don Orsino afraid of you?" 
 
 "Mortally," answered Orsino. "Madame d'Aranjuez 
 knows everything." 
 
 "Is she blue, then? " asked Donna Tullia. 
 
 "What shall I say, Madame?" inquired Orsino, turn- 
 ing to Maria Consuelo. " Is it a compliment to compare 
 you to the sky of Italy? " 
 
 "For blueness?" 
 
 "No — for brightness and serenity." 
 
 "Thanks. That is pretty. I accept." 
 
 "And have you nothing for me? " asked Donna Tullia, 
 with an engaging smile. 
 
 The other two looked at Orsino, wondering what he 
 would say in answer to such a point-blank demand for 
 flattery. 
 
 "Juno is still Minerva's ally," he said, falling back 
 upon mythology, though it struck him that Del Ferice 
 would make a poor Jupiter, with his fat white face and 
 dull eyes. 
 
 "Very good!" laughed Donna Tullia. "A little 
 classic, but I pressed you hard. You are not easily 
 caught. Talking of clever men, " she added with another 
 meaning glance at Orsino, "I met your friend to-day, 
 Consuelo." 
 
 "My friend? Who is he?" 
 
 "Spicca, of course. Whom did you think I meant? 
 We always laugh at her," she said, turning to Orsino, 
 "because she hates him so. She does not know him, and 
 has never spoken to him. It is his cadaverous face that 
 frightens her. One can understand that — we of old 
 Eome, have been used to him since the deluge. But a 
 stranger is horrified at the first sight of him. Consuelo 
 positively dreads to meet him in the street. She says 
 that he makes her dream of all sorts of horrors." 
 
 "It is quite true," said Maria Consuelo, with a slight 
 
182 DON OESINO. 
 
 movement of her beautiful shoulders. " There are peo- 
 ple one would rather not see, merely because they are 
 not good to look at. He is one of them and if I see him 
 coming I turn away." 
 
 "I know, I told him so to-day," continued Donna 
 TuUia cheerfully. " We are old friends, but we do not 
 often meet nowadays. Just fancy ! It was ia that little 
 antiquary's shop in the Monte Brianzo— the first on the 
 left as you go, he has good things — and I saw a bit of 
 embroidery in the, window that took my fancy, so I 
 stopped the carriage and went in. Who should be there 
 but Spicca, hat and all, looking like old Father Time. 
 He was bargaining for somethings — a wretched old bit of 
 brass — ^bargaining, my dear! For a few sous ! One may 
 be poor, but one has no right to be mean — I thought he 
 would have got the miserable antiquary's skin." 
 
 "Antiquaries can generally take care of themselves," 
 observed Orsino incredulously. 
 
 "Oh, I daresay — but it looks so badly, you know. 
 That is all I mean. When he saw me he stopped wrang- 
 ling and we talked a little, while I had the embroidery 
 wrapped up. I will show it to you after dinner. It is 
 sixteenth century, Ugo says — a piece of a chasuble — ex- 
 quisite flowers on claret-coloured satin, a perfect gem, 
 so rare now that everything is imitated. However, 
 that is not the point. It was Spicca. I was forgetting 
 my story. He said the usual things, you know — that 
 he had heard that I was very gay this year, but that it 
 seemed to agree with me, and so on. And I asked him 
 why he never came to see me, and as an inducement I 
 told him of our great beauty here — that is you, Consuelo, 
 so please look delighted instead of frowning — and I told 
 him that she ought to hear him talk, because his face had 
 frightened her so that she ran away when she saw him 
 coming -towards her in the street. You see, if one 
 flatters his cleverness he does not mind being called ugly 
 — or at least I thought not, until to-day. But to my 
 consternation he seemed angry, and he asked me almost 
 
DON OESINO. 183 
 
 savagely if it were true that the Countess d'Aranjuez — 
 that is what he called you, my dear — really tried to avoid 
 him in the street. Then I laughed and said I was only 
 joking, and he began to bargain again for the little brass 
 frame and I went away. When I last heard his voice 
 he was insisting upon seventy-five centimes, and the 
 antiquary was jeering at him and asking a franc and a 
 half. I wonder which got the better of the fight in the 
 end. I will ask him the next time I see him." 
 
 Del Ferice supported his wife with a laugh at her 
 story, but it was not very genuine. He had unpleasant 
 recollections of Spicca in earlier days, and his name 
 recalled events which Ugo would willingly have for- 
 gotten. Orsino smiled politely, but resented the way in 
 which Donna Tullia spoke of his father's old friend. As 
 for Maria Consuelo, she was a little pale, and looked 
 tired. But the countess was irrepressible, for she feared 
 lest Orsino should go away and think her dull. 
 
 "Of course we all really like Spicca," she said. 
 "Every one does." 
 
 " I do, for my part, " said Orsino gravely. " I have a 
 great respect for him, for his own sake, and he is one of 
 my father's oldest friends." 
 
 Maria Consuelo looked at him very suddenly, as though 
 she were surprised by what he said. She did not remem- 
 ber to have heard him mention the melancholy old duel- 
 list. She seemed about to say something, but changed 
 her mind. 
 
 "Yes," said Ugo, turning the subject, "he is one of 
 the old tribe that is dying out. What types there were 
 in those days, and how those who are alive have 
 changed! Do you remember, Tullia? But of course 
 you cannot, my angel, it was far before your time." 
 
 One of Ugo's favourite methods of pleasing his wife 
 was to assert that she was too young to remember people 
 who had indeed played a part as lately as' after the death 
 of her first husband. It always soothed her. 
 
 "I remember them all," he continued. "Old Mon- 
 
184 DON OESINO. 
 
 tevarchi, and Frangipani, and poor Casalverde — and a 
 score of others." 
 
 He had been on the point of mentioning old Astrardente, 
 too, but checked himself. 
 
 "Then there were the young ones, who are in mid- 
 dle age now," he went on, "such as Valdarno and the 
 Montevarchi whom you know, as different from, their 
 former selves as you can well imagine. Society was 
 different too." 
 
 Del Ferice spoke thoughtfully and slowly, as though 
 wishing that some one would interrupt him or take up 
 the subject, for he felt that his wife's long story about 
 Spicca and the antiquary had not been a success, and his 
 instinct told him that Spicca had better not be men- 
 tioned again, since he was a friend of Orsino's and since 
 his name seemed to exert a depressing influence on Maria 
 Consuelo. Orsino came to the rescue and began to talk 
 of current social topics in a way which showed that he 
 was not so profoundly prejudiced by traditional ideas as 
 Del Ferice had expected. The momentary chill wore off . 
 quickly enough, and when the dinner ended Donna 
 TuUia was sure that it had been a success. They all 
 returned to the drawing-room and then Del Ferice, with- 
 out any remark, led Orsino away to smoke with him in a 
 distant apartment. 
 
 "We can smoke again, when we go back," he said. 
 " My wife does not mind and Madame d' Aranjuez likes 
 it. But it is an excuse to be alone together for a little 
 while, and besides, my doctor makes me lie down for a 
 quarter of an hour after dinner. You will excuse me?" 
 
 Del Ferice extended himself upon a leathern lounge, 
 and Orsino sat down in a deep easy-chair. 
 
 " I was so sorry not to be able to come away with you 
 to-day," said Orsino. "The truth is, Madame d' Aran- 
 juez wanted some information and I was just going to 
 explain that I would stay a little longer, when you asked 
 us both to dinner. You must have thought me very for- 
 getful." 
 
DON OESINO. 185 
 
 "Not at all, not at all," answered Del Ferice. "In- 
 deed, I quite supposed that you were coming with me, 
 when it struck me that this would be a much more pleas- 
 ant place for talking. I cannot imagine why I had not 
 thought of it before — ^but I have so many details to think 
 of." 
 
 Not much could be said for the veracity of either of 
 the statements which the two men were pleased to make 
 to each other, but Orsino had the small advantage of 
 being nearer to the letter, if not to the spirit of the 
 truth. Each, however, was satisfied with the other's tact. 
 
 "And so, Don Orsino," continued Del Perice after a 
 short pause, " you wish to try a little operation in busi-. 
 ^ess. Yes. Very good. You have, as we said yester- 
 day, a sum of money ample for a beginning. You have 
 the necessary courage and intelligence. You need a 
 practical assistant, however, and it is indispensable that 
 the point selected for the first venture should be one 
 promising speedy profit. Is that it?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "Very good, very good. I think I can offer you both 
 the land and the partner, and almost guarantee your 
 siiccess, if you will be guided by me." 
 
 " I have come to you for advice, " said Orsino. " I will 
 follow it gratefully. As for the success of the undertak- 
 ing, I will assume the responsibility." 
 
 " Yes. That is better. After all, everything is uncer- 
 tain in such matters, and you would not like to feel that 
 you were under an obligation to me. On the other hand, 
 as I told you, I am selfish and cautious. I would rather 
 not appear in the transaction." 
 
 If any doubt as to Del Perice's honesty of purpose 
 crossed Orsino's mind at that moment, it was fully com- 
 pensated by the fact that he himself distinctly preferred 
 not to be openly associated with the banker. 
 
 "I quite agree with you," he said. 
 
 "Very well. Now for business. Do you know that 
 it is sometimes more profitable to take over a half- 
 
186 DON OBSINO. 
 
 finished building, than to begin a new one? Often, I 
 assure you, for the returns are quicker and you get a 
 great deal at half price. Now, the man whom I recom- 
 mend to you is a practical architect, and was employed 
 by a certain baker to build a tenement building in one of 
 the new quarters. The baker dies, the house is unfin- 
 ished, the heirs wish to sell it as it is — there are at 
 least a dozen of them — and meanwhile the work is 
 stopped. My advice is this. Buy this house, go into 
 partnership with the unemployed architect, agreeing to 
 give him a share of the profits, finish the building and 
 sell it as soon as it is habitable. In six months you will 
 get a handsome return." 
 
 "That sounds very tempting," answered Orsino, "but 
 it would need more capital than I have." 
 
 " Not at all, not at all. It is a mere question of tak- 
 ing over a mortgage and paying stamp duty." 
 
 "And how about the difference in ready money, which 
 ought to go to the present owners? " 
 
 "I see that you are already beginning to understand 
 the principles of business," said Del Ferice, with an 
 encouraging smile. "But in this case the owners are 
 glad to get rid of the house on any terms by which they 
 lose nothing, for they are in mortal fear of being ruined 
 by it, as they probably will be if they hold on to it." 
 
 "Then why should I not lose, if I take it?" 
 
 " That is just the difference. The heirs are a number 
 of incapable persons of the lower class, who do not un- 
 derstand these matters. If they attempted to go on they 
 would soon find themselves entangled in the greatest 
 difficulties. They would sink where you will almost 
 certainly swim." 
 
 Orsino was silent for a moment. There was some- 
 thing despicable, to his thinking, in profiting by the loss 
 of a wretched baker's heirs. 
 
 "It seems to me," he said presently, "that if I succeed 
 in this, I ought to give a share of the profits to the pres- 
 ent owners." 
 
DON OESINO. 187 
 
 Not a muscle of Del Ferice's face moved, but his dull 
 eyes looked curiously at Orsino's young face. 
 
 " That sort of thing is not commonly done in business, " 
 he said quietly, after a short pause. " As a rule, men 
 who busy themselves with affairs do so in the hope of 
 growing rich, but I can quite understand that where 
 business is a mere pastime, as it is to be in your case, a 
 man of generous instincts may devote the proceeds to 
 charity." 
 
 "It looks more like justice than charity to me," 
 observed Orsino. 
 
 " Call it what you will, but succeed first and consider 
 the uses of your success afterwards. That is not my 
 affair. The baker's heirs are not especially deserving 
 people, I believe. In fact they are said to have hastened 
 his death in the hope of inheriting his wealth and are 
 disappointed to find that they have got nothing. If you 
 wish to be philanthropic you might wait until you have 
 cleared a large sum and then give it to a school or a 
 hospital." 
 
 "That is true," said Orsino. "In the meantime it is 
 important to begin." 
 
 "We can begin to-morrow, if you please. You will 
 find me at the bank at mid-day. I will send for the 
 architect and the notary and we can manage everything 
 in forty-eight hours. Before the week is out you can be 
 at work." 
 
 " So soon as that? " 
 
 "Certainly. Sooner, by hurrying matters a little." 
 
 "As soon as possible then. And I will go to the bank 
 at twelve o'clock to-morrow. A thousand thanks for all 
 your good offices, my dear count." 
 
 "It is a pleasure, I assure you." 
 
 Orsino was so much pleased with Del Ferice's quick 
 and business-like way of arranging matters that he began 
 to look upon him as a model to imitate, so far as execu- 
 tive ability was concerned. It was odd enough that any 
 one of his name should feel anything like admiration for 
 
188 DON ORSINO. 
 
 TJgo, but friendship and hatred are only the opposite 
 points at which the social pendulum pauses before it 
 swings backward, and they who live long may see many 
 oscillations. 
 
 The two men went back to the drawing-room where 
 Donna TuUia and Maria Consuelo were discussing the 
 complicated views of the almighty dressmaker. Orsino 
 knew that there was little chance of his speaking a word 
 alone with Madame d'Aranjuez and resigned himself to 
 the effort of helping the general conversation. Fortu- 
 nately the time to be got over in this way was not long, 
 as all four had engagements in the evening. Maria 
 Consuelo rose at half-past ten, but Orsino determined to 
 wait five minutes longer, or at least to make a show of 
 meaning to do so. But Donna TuUia put out her hand 
 as though she expected him to take his leave at the same 
 time. She was going to a ball and wanted at least an 
 hour in which to screw her magnificence up to the danc- 
 ing pitch. 
 
 The consequence was that Orsino found himself help- 
 ing Maria Consuelo into the modest hired conveyance 
 which awaited her at the gate. He hoped that she would 
 offer him a seat for a short distance, but he was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "May I come to-morrow?" he asked, as he closed the 
 door of the carriage. The night was not cold and the 
 window was down. 
 
 "Please tell the coachman to take me to the Via 
 Nazionale," she said quickly. 
 
 "What number?" 
 
 "Never mind — ^he knows — I have forgotten. Good- 
 night." 
 
 She tried to draw up the window, but Orsino held his 
 hand on it. 
 
 "May I come to-morrow?" he asked again. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Are you angry with me still?" 
 
 "No." 
 
DON ORSINO. 189 
 
 "Then why- 
 
 "Let me shut the window. Take your hand away." 
 
 Her voice was very imperative in the dark. Orsino 
 relinquished his hold on the frame, and the pane ran up 
 suddenly into its place with a rattling noise. There was 
 obviously nothing more to be said. 
 
 "Via ISTazionale. The Signora says you know the 
 house," he called to the driver. 
 
 The man looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders 
 after the manner of livery stable coachmen and drove 
 slowly off in the direction indicated. Orsino stood look- 
 ing after the carriage and a few seconds later he saw that 
 the man drew rein and bent down to the front window 
 as though asking for orders. Orsino thought he heard 
 Maria Consuelo's voice, answering the question, but he 
 could not distinguish what she said, and the brougham 
 drove on at once without taking a new direction. 
 
 He was curious to know whither she was going, and 
 the idea of following her suggested itself but he instantly 
 dismissed it, partly because it seemed unworthy and 
 partly, perhaps, because he was on foot, and no cab was 
 passing within hail. 
 
 Orsino was very much puzzled. During the dinner 
 she had behaved with her usual cordiality but as soon as 
 they were alone she spoke and acted as she had done in 
 the afternoon. Orsino turned away and walked across 
 the deserted square. He was greatly disturbed, for he 
 felt a sense of humiliation and disappointment quite new 
 to him. Young as he was, he had been accustomed al- 
 ready to a degree of consideration very different from 
 that which' Maria Consuelo thought fit to bestow, and it 
 was certainly the first time in his life that a door — even 
 the door of a carriage — had been shut in his face without 
 ceremony. What would have been an unpardonable 
 insult, coming from a man, was at least an indignity 
 when it came from a woman. As Orsino walked along, 
 his wrath rose, and he wondered why he had not been 
 angry at once. 
 
190 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "Very well," he said to himself. "She says she does 
 not want me. I will take her at her word and I will not 
 go to see her any more. We shall see what happens. 
 She will find out that I am not a child, as she was good 
 enough to call me to-day, and that I am not in the habit 
 of having windows put up in my face. I have much 
 more serious business on hand than making love to 
 Madame d'Aranjuez." 
 
 The more he reflected upon the situation, the more 
 angry he grew, and when he reached the door of the club 
 he was in a humour to quarrel with everything and 
 everybody. Fortunately, at that early hour, the place 
 was in the sole possession of half a dozen old gentlemen 
 whose conversation diverted his thoughts though it was 
 the very reverse of edifying. Between the stories they 
 told and the considerable number of cigarettes he smoked 
 while listening to them he was almost restored to his 
 normal frame of mind by midnight, when four or five of 
 his usual companions straggled in and proposed baccarat. 
 After his recent successes he could not well refuse to 
 play, so he sat down rather reluctantly with the rest. 
 Oddly enough he did not lose, though he won but little. 
 
 " Lucky at play, unlucky in love, " laughed one of the 
 men carelessly. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Orsino, turning sharply 
 upon the speaker. 
 
 "Mean? Nothing," answered the latter in great sur- 
 prise. "What is the matter with you, Orsino? Cannot 
 one quote a common proverb? " 
 
 "Oh — if you meant nothing, let us go on," Orsino an- 
 swered gloomily. 
 
 As he took up the cards again, he heard a sigh behind 
 him and turning round saw that Spicea was standing at 
 his shoulder. He was shocked by the melancholy count's 
 face, though he was used to meeting him almost every 
 day. The haggard and cadaverous features, the sunken 
 and careworn eyes, contrasted almost horribly with the 
 freshness and gaiety of Orsino's companions, and the 
 
DON OBSINO. 191 
 
 brilliant light in the room threw the man's deadly pallor 
 into strong relief. 
 
 " Will you play, Count?" asked Orsino, making room 
 for him. 
 
 "Thanks — no. I never play nowadays," answered 
 Spicca quietly. 
 
 He turned and left the room. With all his apparent 
 weakness his step was not unsteady, though it was slower 
 than in the old days. 
 
 " He sighed in that way because we did not quarrel, " 
 said the man whose quoted proverb had annoyed Orsino. 
 
 "I am ready and anxious to quarrel with everybody 
 to-night," answered Orsino. "Let us play baccarat— 
 that is much better." 
 
 Spicca left the club alone and walked slowly home- 
 wards to his small lodging in the Via della Croce. A 
 few dying embers smouldered in the little fireplace 
 which warmed his sitting-room. He stirred them slowly, 
 took a stick of wood from the wicker basket, hesitated a 
 moment, and then put it back again instead of burning 
 it. The night was not cold and wood was very dear. 
 He sat down under the light of the old lamp which stood 
 upon the mantelpiece, and drew a long breath. But 
 presently, putting his hand into the pocket of his over- 
 coat in search of his cigarette case, he drew out some- 
 thing else which he had almost forgotten, a small 
 something wrapped in coarse paper. He undid it and 
 looked at the little frame of chiselled brass which Donna 
 TuUia had found him buying in the afternoon, turning it , 
 over and over, absently, as though thinking of some- 
 thing else. 
 
 Then he fumbled in his pockets again and found a 
 photograph which he had also bought in the course of 
 the day — the photogfeph of Gouache's latest portrait, 
 obtained in a contraband fashion and with some diffi- 
 culty from the photographer. 
 
 Without hesitation Spicca took a pocket-knife and 
 began to cut the head out, with that extraordinary neat- 
 
192 DON OKSINO. 
 
 ness and precision -which characterised him when he used 
 any sharp instrument. The head just fitted the frame. 
 He fastened it in with drops of sealing-wax and carefully 
 burned the rest of the picture in the embers. 
 
 The face of Maria Consuelo smiled at him in the lamp- 
 light, as he turned it in different ways so as to find the 
 best aspect of it. Then he hung it on a nail above the 
 mantelpiece just under a pair of crossed foils. 
 
 "That man Gouache is a very clever fellow," he said 
 aloud. " Between them, he and nature have made a good 
 likeness." 
 
 He sat down again and it was a long time before he 
 made up his mind to take away the lamp and go to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Del Ferice kept his word and arranged matters for 
 Orsino with a speed and skill which excited the latter's 
 admiration. The affair was not indeed very complicated 
 though it involved a deed of sale, the transfer of a mort- 
 gage and a deed of partnership between Orsino Saracin- 
 esca and Andrea Contini, architect, under the style 
 "Andrea Contini and Company," besides a contract 
 between this firm of the one party and the bank in which 
 Del Ferice was a director, of the other, the partners 
 agreeing to continue the building of the half-finished 
 house, and the bank binding itself to advance small 
 sums up to a certain amount for current expenses of 
 material and workmen's wages. Orsino signed every- 
 thing required of him after reading the documents, and 
 Andrea 'Contini followed his example. 
 
 The architect was a tall man with bright brown eyes, 
 a dark and somewhat ragged beard, close cropped hair, 
 a prominent, bony forehead and large, coarsely shaped, 
 thin ears oddly set upon his head. He habitually wore a 
 
DON OESINO. 193 
 
 dark overcoat, of which the collar was generally turned 
 up on one side and not on the other. Judging from the 
 appearance of his strong shoes he had always been walk- 
 ing a long distance over bad roads, and when it had 
 rained within the week his trousers were generally 
 bespattered with mud to a considerable height above the 
 heel. He habitually carried an extinguished cigar be- 
 tween his teeth of which he chewed the thin black end 
 uneasily. Orsino fancied that he might be about eight 
 and twenty years old, and was not altogether displeased 
 with his appearance. He was not at all like the majority 
 of his kind, who, in Rome at least, usTially affect a scru- 
 pulous dandyism of attire and an uncommon refinement 
 of manner. Whatever Contini's faults might prove to 
 be, Orsino did not believe that they would turn out to be 
 those of idleness or vanity. How far he was right in 
 his judgment will appear before long, but he conceived 
 his partner to be gifted, frank, enthusiastic and careless 
 of outward forms. 
 
 As for the architect himself, he surveyed Orsino with 
 a sort of sympathetic curiosity which the latter would 
 have thought unpleasantly familiar if he had understood 
 it. Contini had never spoken before with any more 
 exalted personage than Del Feriee, and he studied the 
 young aristocrat as though he were a being from another 
 world. He hesitated some time as to the proper mode of 
 addressing him and at last decided to call him " Signer 
 Principe." Orsino seemed quite satisfied with this, and 
 the architect was inwardly pleased when the young man 
 said " Signor Contini " instead of Contini alone. It was 
 quite clear that Del Feriee had already acquainted him 
 with all the details of the situation, for he seemed to 
 understand all the documents at a glance, picking out 
 and examining the important clauses with unfailing 
 acuteness, and pointing with his finger to the place 
 where Orsino was to sign his name. 
 
 At the end of the interview Orsino shook hands with 
 Del Feriee and thanked him warmly for his kindness, 
 
194 DON OKSINO. 
 
 after wliich he and his partner went out together, ^ey 
 stood side by side upon the pavement for a few seconds, 
 each wondering what the other was going to say. ^. 
 
 "Perhaps we had better go and look at the hou|e, 
 Sign or Principe," observed Contini, in the midst of Ip 
 ineffectual effort to light the stump of his cigar. 
 
 "I think so, too," answered Orsino, realising tha^ 
 since he had acquired the property it would be as weE 
 to know how it looked. " You see I have trusted my ■ 
 adviser entirely in the matter, and I am ashamed to say 
 I do not know where the house is." 
 
 Andrea Contini looked at him curiously. 
 
 " This is the first time that you have had anything to 
 do with business of this kind, Signor Principe," he ob- 
 served. "You have fallen into good hands." 
 
 " Yours ?'^ inquired Orsino, a little stiffly. 
 
 " No. I mean that Count Del Perice is a good adviser 
 in this matter." 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "I am sure of it," said Contini with conviction. "It 
 would be a great surprise to me if we failed to make a 
 handsome profit by this contract." 
 
 "There is luck and ill-luck in everything," answered 
 Orsino, signalling to a passing cab. 
 
 The two men exchanged few words as they drove up 
 to the new quarter in the direction indicated to the driver 
 by Contini. The cab entered a sort of broad lane, the 
 sketch of a future street, rough with the unrolled metal- 
 ling of broken stones, the space set apart for the pave- 
 ment being an uneven path of trodden brown earth. 
 Here and there tall detached houses rose out of the 
 wilderness, mostly covered by scaffoldings and swarm- 
 ing with workmen, but hideous where so far finished as 
 to be visible in all the isolation of their six-storied 
 nakedness. A strong smell of lime, wet earth and damp 
 masonry was blown into Orsino's nostrils by the sciroeco 
 wind. Contini stopped the cab before an unpromising and 
 deserted erection of poles, boards and tattered matting. 
 
DON OBSINO. 195 
 
 "This is our house," he said, getting out and immedi- 
 ately making another attempt to light his cigar. 
 
 "May I offer you a cigarette?" asked Orsino, holding 
 out his case. 
 
 Contini touched his hat, bowed a little awkwardly and 
 took one of the cigarettes, which he immediately trans- 
 ferred to his coat pocket. 
 
 "If you will allow me I will smoke it by and by," he 
 said. "I have not finished my cigar." 
 
 Orsino stood on the slippery ground beside the stones 
 and contemplated his purchase. All at once his heart 
 sank and he felt a profound disgust for everything within 
 the range of his vision. He was suddenly aware of his 
 own total and hopeless ignorance of everything con- 
 nected with building, theoretical or practical. The sight 
 of the stiff, angular scaffoldings, draped with torn straw 
 mattings that flapped fantastically in the south-east 
 wind, the apparent absence of anything like a real house 
 behind them, the blades of grass sprouting abundantly 
 about the foot of each pole and covering the heaps of 
 brown pozzolana earth prepared for making mortar, even 
 the detail of a broken wooden hod before the boarded 
 entrance — all these things contributed at once to increase 
 his dismay and to fill him with a bitter sense of inevita- 
 ble failure. He found nothing to say, as he stood with 
 his hands in his pockets staring at the general desola- 
 tion, but he understood for the first time why women 
 cry for disappointment. And moreover, this desolation 
 was his own peculiar property, by deed of purchase, and 
 he could not get rid of it. 
 
 Meanwhile Andrea Contini stood beside him, examin- 
 ing the scaffoldings with his bright brown eyes, in no 
 way disconcerted by the prospect. 
 
 " Shall we go in? " he asked at last. 
 
 "Do unfinished houses always look like this?" in- 
 quired Orsino, in a hopeless tone, without noticing his 
 companion's proposition. 
 
 "Not always," answered Contini cheerfully. "It de- 
 
196 DON OKSINO. 
 
 pends upon the amount of work that has been done, and 
 iipon other things. Sometimes the foundations sink and 
 the buildings collapse." 
 
 "Are you sure nothing of the kind has happened 
 here?" asked Orsino with increasing anxiety. 
 
 " I have been several times to look at it since the baker 
 died and I have not noticed any cracks yet, " answered 
 the architect, whose coolness seemed almost exasperating. 
 
 "I suppose you understand these things, Signer 
 Contini?" 
 
 Contini laughed, and felt in his pockets for a crumpled 
 paper box of wax-lights. 
 
 "It is my profession," he answered. "And then, I 
 built this house from the foundations. If you will come 
 in, Signor Principe, I will show you how solidly the 
 work is done." 
 
 He took a key from his pocket and thrust it into a hole 
 in the boarding, which latter proved to be a rough door 
 and opened noisily upon rusty hinges. Orsino followed 
 him in silence. To the young^man's inexperienced eye 
 the interior of the building was even more depressing 
 than the outside. It smelt like a vault, and a dim grey 
 light entered the square apertures from the curtained 
 scaffoldings without, just suflReient to help one to find a 
 way through the heaps of rubbish that covered the un- 
 paved floors. Contini explained rapidly and concisely 
 the arrangement of the rooms, calling one cave familiarly 
 a dining-room and another a "conjugal bedroom," as he 
 expressed it, and expatiating upon the facilities of com- 
 munication which he himself had carefully planned. 
 Orsino listened in silence and followed his guide patiently 
 from place to place, in and out of dark passages and up 
 flights of stairs as yet unguarded by any rail, until they 
 emerged upon a sort of flat terrace intersected by low 
 walls, which was indeed another floor and above which 
 another story and a garret were yet to be built to com- 
 plete the house. Orsino looked gloomily about him, 
 lighted a cigarette and sat down upon a bit of masonry. 
 
DON ORSINO. 197 
 
 "To me, it looks very like failure," he remarked. 
 "But I suppose there is something in it." 
 
 "It will not look like failure next month," said Contini 
 carelessly. " Another story is soon built, and then the 
 attic, and then, if you like, a Gothic roof and a turret 
 at one corner. That always attracts buyers first and 
 respectable lodgers afterwards." 
 
 " Let us have a turret, by all means," answered Orsino, 
 as though his tailor had - proposed to put an extra button 
 on the cuff of his coat. " But how in the world are you 
 going to begin? Everything looks to me as though it 
 were falling to pieces." 
 
 "Leave all that to me, Signer Principe. We will 
 begin to-morrow. I have a good overseer and there are 
 plenty of workmen to be had. We have material for a 
 week at least, and paid for, excepting a few cartloads of 
 lime. Come again in ten days and you will see some- 
 thing worth looking at." 
 
 "In ten days? And what am I to do in the mean- 
 time?" asked Orsino, who fancied that he had found an 
 occupation. 
 
 Andrea Contini looked at him in some surprise, not 
 understanding in the least what he meant. 
 
 "I mean, am I to have nothing to do with the work?" 
 asked Orsino. 
 
 " Oh — as far as that goes, you will come every day. 
 Signer Priricipe, if it amuses you, though as you are not 
 a practical architect, your assistance is not needed until 
 questions of taste have to be considered, such as_ the 
 Gothic roof for instance. But there are the accounts to be 
 kept, of course, and there is the business with the bank 
 from week to week, of&ce work of various kinds. That 
 becomes naturally your department, as the practical su- 
 perintendence of the building is mine, but you will of 
 course leave it to the steward of the Signer Principe di 
 Sant' Ilario, who is a man of affairs." 
 
 " I will do nothing of the kind ! " exclaimed Orsino. 
 " I will do it myself. I will learn how it is done. I 
 want occupation." 
 
198 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "What an extraordinary wish!" Andrea Contini 
 opened his eyes in real astonishment. 
 
 " Is it? You work. Why should not I? " 
 ' "I must, and you need not, Signor Principe," observed 
 the architect. "But if you insist, then you had better 
 get a clerk to explain the details to you at first." 
 
 "Do you not understand them? Can you not teach 
 me?" asked Orsino, displeased with the idea of employ- 
 ing a third person. 
 
 " Oh yes— I have been a clerk myself. I should be too 
 much honoured but — the fact is, my spare time " 
 
 He hesitated and seemed reluctant to explain. 
 
 "What do you do with your spare time?" asked 
 Orsino, suspecting some love affair. 
 
 "The fact is — I play a second violin at one of the 
 theatres — and I give lessons on the mandolin, and some- 
 times I do copying work for my uncle who is a clerk in 
 the Treasury. You see, he is old, and his eyes are not 
 as good as they were." 
 
 Orsino began to think that his partner was a very odd 
 person. He could not help smiling at the enumeration 
 of his architect's secondary occupations. 
 
 "You are very fond of music, then?" he asked. 
 
 " Eh — ^yes — as one can be, without talent — a little by 
 necessity. To be an architect one must have houses to 
 build. You see the baker died unexpectedly. One 
 must live somehow." 
 
 "And could you not — ^how shall I say? Would you 
 not be willing to give me lessons in book-keeping instead 
 of teaching some one else to play the mandolin? " 
 
 " You would not care to learn the mandolin yourself, 
 Signor Principe? It is a very pretty instrument, espe- 
 cially for country parties, as well as for serenading." 
 
 Orsino laughed. He did not see himself in the charac- 
 ter of a mandolinist. 
 
 "I have not the slightest ear for music," he answered. 
 "I would much rather learn something about business." 
 
 "It is less amusing," said Andrea Contini regretfully. 
 
DON ORSIKO. 199 
 
 "But I am at your service. I will come to the office 
 •when work is over and we will do the accounts together. 
 You will learn in that way very quickly." 
 
 " Thank you. I suppose we must have an office. If; 
 is necessary, is it not?" 
 
 " Indispensable — a room, a garret — anything. A habi- 
 tation, a legal domicile, so to say." 
 
 " Where do you live. Signer Contini? Would not your 
 lodging do?" 
 
 " I am afraid not. Signer Principe. At least not for 
 the present. I am not very well lodged and the stairs 
 are badly lighted." 
 
 "Why not here, then?" asked Orsino, suddenly grow- 
 ing desperately practical, for he felt unaccountably reluc- 
 tant to hire an office in the city. 
 
 "We should pay no rent," said Contini. "It is an 
 idea. But the walls are dry downstairs, and we only 
 need a pavement, and plastering, and doors and windows, 
 and papering and some furniture to make one of the 
 rooms quite habitable. It is an idea, undoubtedly. Be- 
 sides, it would give the house an air of being inhabited, 
 which is valuable." 
 
 " How long will all that take? A month or two? " 
 
 "About a week. It will be a little fresh, but if you 
 are not rheumatic, Signor Principe, we can try it." 
 
 "I am not rheumatic," laughed Orsino, who was 
 pleased with the idea of having his office on the spot, 
 and apparently in the midst of a wilderness. " And I 
 suppose you really do understand architecture, Signor 
 Contini, though you do play the fiddle." 
 
 In this exceedingly sketchy way was the firm of 
 Andrea Contini and Company established and lodged, 
 being at the time in a very shadowy state, theoretically 
 and practically, though it was destined to play a more 
 prominent part in affairs than either of the young part- 
 ners anticipated. Orsino discovered before long that his 
 partner was a man of skill and energy, and his spirits 
 rose by degrees as the work began to advance. Contini 
 
200 DON ORSINO. 
 
 was restless, untiring and gifted, such a character as 
 Orsino had not yet met in his limited experience of the 
 world. The man seemed to understand his business to 
 the smallest details and could show the workmen how to 
 mix mortar in the right proportions, or how to strengthen 
 a scaffolding at the weak point much better than the over- 
 seer or the master builder. At the books he seemed to be 
 infallible, and he possessed, moreover, such a power of 
 stating things clearly and neatly that Orsino actually 
 learnt from him in a few weeks what he would have 
 needed six months to learn anywhere else. As soon as 
 the first dread of failure wore off, Orsino discovered that 
 he was happier than he had ever been in the course of 
 his life before. What he did was not, indeed, of much 
 use in the progress of the office work and rather hindered 
 than helped Contini, who was obliged to do everything 
 slowly and sometimes twice over in order to make his 
 pupil understand; but Orsino had a clear and practical 
 mind, and did not forget what he had learned once. An 
 odd sort of friendship sprang up between the two men, 
 who under ordinary circumstances would never have met, 
 or known each other by sight. The one had expected to 
 find in his partner an overbearing, ignorant patrician; 
 the other had supposed that his companion would turn . 
 out a vulgar, sordid, half-educated builder. Both were 
 equally surprised when each discovered the truth about 
 the other. 
 
 Though Orsino was reticent by nature, he took no 
 especial pains to conceal his goings and comings, but as 
 his occupation took him out of the ordinary beat followed 
 by his idle friends, it was a long time before any of them 
 discovered that he was engaged in practical business. In 
 his own home he was not questioned, and he said noth- 
 ing. The Saracinesca were considered eccentric, but no 
 one interfered with them nor ventured to offer them sug- 
 gestions. If they chose to allow their heir absolute 
 liberty of action, merely because he had passed his 
 twenty-first birthday, it was their own concern, and his 
 
DON ORSINO, 201 
 
 ruin would be upon their own heads. No one cared to 
 risk a savage retort from the aged prince, or a cutting 
 answer from Sant' Ilario for the questionable satisfac- 
 tion of telling either that Orsino was going to the bad. 
 The only person who really knew what Orsino was about, 
 and who could have claimed the right to speak to his 
 family of his doings was San Giacinto, and he held his 
 peace, having plenty of important affairs of his own to 
 occupy him and being blessed with an especial gift for 
 leaving other people to themselves. 
 
 Sant' Ilario never spied upon his son, as many of his 
 contemporaries would have done in his place. He pre- 
 ferred to trust him to his own devices so long as these 
 led to no great mischief. He saw that Orsino was less 
 restless than formerly, that he was less at the club, and 
 that he was stirring earlier in the morning than had been 
 his wont, and he was well satisfied. 
 
 It was not to be expected, however, that Orsino should 
 take Maria Consuelo literally at her word, and cease from 
 visiting her all at once. If not really in love with her, 
 he was at least so much interested in her that he sorely 
 missed the daily half hour or more which he had been 
 used to spend in her society. 
 
 Three several times he went to her hotel at the ac- 
 customed hour, and each time he was told by the porter 
 that she was at home ; but on each occasion, also, when 
 he sent up his card, the hotel servant returned with a 
 message from the maid to the effect that Madame 
 d'Aranjuez was tired and did not receive. Orsino's 
 pride rebelled equally against making a further attempt 
 and against writing a letter requesting an explanation. 
 Once only, when he was walking alone she passed him 
 in a carriage, and she acknowledged his bow quietly and 
 naturally, as though nothing had happened. He fancied 
 she was paler than usual, and that there were shadows 
 under her eyes which he had not formerly noticed. 
 Possibly, he thought, she was really not in good health, 
 and the excuses made through her maid were not wholly 
 
202 DON OESINO. 
 
 invented. He was conscious that his heart beat a little 
 faster as he watched the back of the brougham disappear- 
 ing in the distance, but he did not feel an irresistible 
 longing to make another and more serious attempt to see 
 her. He tried to analyse his own sensations, and it 
 seemed to him that he rather dreaded a meeting than 
 desired it, and that he felt a certain humiliation for 
 which he could not account. In the midst of his analy- 
 sis, his cigarette went out and he sighed. He was 
 startled by such an expressioh of feeling, and tried to 
 remember whether he had ever sighed before in his life, 
 but if he had, he could not recall the circumstances. 
 He tried to console himself with the absurd supposition 
 that he was sleepy and that the long-drawn breath had 
 been only a suppressed yawn. Then he walked on, gaz- 
 ing before him into the purple haze that filled the deep 
 street just as the sun was setting, and a vague sadness 
 and longing touched him which had no place in his cata- 
 logue of permissible emotions and which were as far re- 
 moved from the cold cynicism which he admired in 
 others and affected in himself as they were beyond the 
 sphere of his analysis. 
 
 There is an age, not always to be fixed exactly, at 
 which the really masculine nature craves the society of 
 womankind, in one shape or another, as a necessity of 
 existence, and by the society of womankind no one 
 means merely the daily and hourly social intercourse 
 which consists in exchanging the same set of remarks 
 half a dozen times a day with as many beings of gentle 
 sex who, to the careless eye of ordinary man, differ from 
 each other in dress rather than in face or thought. 
 There are eminently manly men, that is to say men fear- 
 less, strong, honourable and active, to whom the com- 
 mon five o'clock tea presents as much distraction and 
 offers as much womanly sympathy as they need; who 
 choose their intimate friends among men, rather than 
 among women, and who die at an advanced age without 
 ever having been more than comfortably in love — and of 
 
DON ORSINO. 203 
 
 such is the Kingdom of Heaven. The masculine man 
 may be as brave, as strong and as scrupulously just in 
 all his dealings, but on the other hand he may be weak, 
 cowardly and a cheat, and he is apt to inherit the por- 
 tion of sinners, whatever his moral characteristics may 
 be, good or bad. 
 
 Orsino was certainly not unmanly, but he was also 
 eminently masculine and he began to suffer from the 
 loss of Maria Consuelo's conversation in a way that sur- 
 prised himself. His acquaintance with her, to give it a 
 mild name, had been the first of the kind which he had 
 enjoyed, and it contrasted too strongly with the crude 
 experiences of his untried youth not to be highly valued 
 by him and deeply regretted. He might pretend to 
 laugh at it, and repeat to himself that his Egeria had 
 been but a very superficial person, fervent in the reading 
 of the daily novel and possibly not even worldly wise ; 
 he did not miss her any the less for that. A little sym- 
 pathy and much patience in listening will go far to make 
 a woman of small gifts indispensable even to a man of 
 superior talent, especially when he thinks himself misun- 
 derstood in his ordinary surroundings. The sympathy 
 passes for intelligence and the patience for assent and 
 encouragement — a touch of the hand, and there is friend- 
 ship, a tear, a sigh, and devotion stands upon the stage, 
 bearing in her arms an infant love who learns to walk 
 his part at the first suspicion of a kiss. 
 
 Orsino did not imagine that he had exhausted the 
 world's capabilities of happiness. The age of Byronism, 
 as it used to be called, is over. Possibly tragedies are 
 more real and frequent in our day than when the century 
 was young; at all events those which take place seem to 
 draw a new element of horror from those undefinable, 
 mechanical, prosaic, psuedo-scientific conditions which 
 make our lives so different from those of our fathers. 
 Everything is terribly sudden nowadays, and alarmingly 
 quick. Lovers make love across Europe by telegraph, 
 and poetic justice arrives in less than forty-eight hours 
 
204 DON OESINO. 
 
 by the Oriental Express. Divorce is our weapon of 
 precision, and every pack of cards at the gaming table 
 can distil a poison more destructive than that of the 
 Borgia. The unities of time and place are preserved by 
 wire and rail in a way which would have delighted the 
 hearts of the old French tragics. Perhaps men seek 
 dramatic situations in their own lives less readily since 
 they have found out means of making the concluding act 
 more swift, sudden and inevitable. At all events we all 
 like tragedy less and comedy more than our fathers did, 
 which, I think, shows that we are sadder and possibly 
 wiser men than they. 
 
 However this may be, Orsino was no more inclined to 
 fancy himself unhappy than any of his familiar com- 
 panions, though he was quite willing to believe that he 
 understood most of life's problems, and especially the 
 heart of woman. He continued to go into the world, for 
 it was new to him and if he did not find exactly the sort 
 of sympathy he secretly craved, he found at least a great 
 deal of consideration, some flattery and a certain amount 
 of amusement. But when he was not actually being 
 amused, or really engaged in the work which he had un- 
 dertaken with so much enthusiasm, he felt lonely and 
 missed Maria Consuelo more than ever. By this time 
 she had taken a position in society from which there 
 could be no drawing back, and he gave up for ever the 
 hope of seeing her in his own circle. She seemed to 
 avoid even the grey houses where they might have met 
 on neutral ground, and Orsino saw that his only chance 
 of finding her in the world lay in going frequently and 
 openly to Del Ferice's house. He had called on Donna 
 Tullia after the dinner, of course, but he was not pre- 
 pared to do more, and Del Ferice did not seem to expect it. 
 
 Three or four weeks after he had entered into partner- 
 ship with Andrea Contini, Orsino found himself alone 
 with his mother in the evening. Corona was seated near 
 the fire in her favourite boudoir, with a book in her hand, 
 and Orsino stood warming himself on one side of the 
 
DON ORSINO. 205 
 
 chimney-piece, staring into the flames and occasionally 
 glancing at his mother's calm, dark face. He was debat- 
 ing whether he should stay at home or not. 
 
 Corona became conscious that he looked at her from 
 time to time and dropped her novel upon her knee. 
 
 "Axe you going out, Orsino?" she asked. 
 
 "I hardly know," he answered. "There is nothing 
 particular to do, and it is too late for the theatre." 
 
 "Then stay with me. Let us talk." She looked at 
 him affectionately and pointed to a low chair near her. 
 
 He drew it up until he could see her face as she spoke, 
 and then sat down. 
 
 "What shall we talk about, mother?" he asked, with 
 a smile. 
 
 "About yourself, if you like, my dear. That is, if 
 you have anything that you know I would like to hear. 
 I am not curious, am I, Orsino? I never ask you ques- 
 tions about yourself." 
 
 "No, indeed. You never tease me with questions — 
 nor does my father either, for that matter. Would you 
 really like to know what I am doing? " 
 
 "If you will tell me." 
 
 "I am building a house," said Orsino, looking at her 
 to see the effect of the announcement. 
 
 "A house?" repeated Corona in surprise. "Where? 
 Does your father know about it?" 
 
 "He said he did not care what I did." Orsino spoke 
 rather bitterly. 
 
 " That does not sound like him, my dear. Tell me all 
 about it. Have you quarrelled with him, or had words 
 together? " 
 
 Orsino told his story quickly, concisely and with a 
 frankness he would perhaps not have shown to any one 
 else in the world, for he did not even conceal his con- 
 nection with Del Ferice. Corona listened intently, and 
 her deep eyes told him plainly enough that she was in- 
 terested. On his part he found an unexpected pleasure in 
 telling her the tale, and he wondered why it had never 
 
206 DON OESINO. 
 
 struck him that his mother might sympathise with his 
 ■ plans and aspirations. When he had finished, he waited 
 for her first word almost as anxiously as he would have 
 waited for an expression of opinion from Maria Consuelo. 
 
 Corona did not speak at once. She looked into his 
 eyes, smiled, patted his lean brown hand lovingly and 
 smiled again before she spoke. 
 
 " I like it, " she said at last. " I like you to be inde- 
 pendent and determined. You might perhaps have 
 chosen a better man than Del Ferice for your adviser. 
 He did something once— well, never mind ! It was long 
 ago and it did us no harm." 
 
 " What did he do, mother? I know my father wounded 
 him in a duel before you were married " 
 
 " It was not that. I would rather not tell you about it 
 — it can do no good, and after all, it has nothing to do 
 with the present affair. He would not be so foolish as 
 to do you an injury now. I know him very well. He is 
 far too clever for that." 
 
 "He is certainly clever," said Orsino. He knew that 
 it would be quite useless to question his mother further 
 after what she had said. " I am glad that you do not 
 think I have made a mistake in going into this business." 
 
 " No. I do not think you have made a mistake, and I 
 do not believe that your father will think so either when 
 he knows all about it." 
 
 "He need not have been so icily discouraging," ob- 
 served Orsino. 
 
 " He is a man, my dear, and I am a woman. That is 
 the difference. Was San Giacinto more encouraging 
 than he? No. They think alike, and San Giacinto has 
 an immense experience besides. And yet they are both 
 wrong. You may succeed, or you may fail — I hope you 
 will succeed — ^but I do not care much for the result. It 
 is the principle I like, the idea, the independence of the 
 thing. As. I grow old, I think more than I used to do 
 when I was young." 
 
 " How can you talk of growing old! " exclainied Orsino 
 indignantly. 
 
DON ORSINO. 207 
 
 "I think more," said Corona again, not heeding him. 
 " One of my thoughts is that our old restricted life was 
 a mistake for us, and that to keep it up would be a sin 
 for you. The world used to stand still in those days, 
 and we stood at the head of it, or thought we did. But 
 it is moving now and you must move with it or you will 
 not only have to give up your place, but you will be left 
 behind altogether." 
 
 "I had no idea that you were so modern, dearest 
 mother," laughed Orsino. He felt suddenly very happy 
 and in the best of humours with himself. 
 
 " Modern — no, I do not think that either your father 
 or I could ever be that. If you had lived our lives you 
 would see how impossible it is. The most I can hope to 
 do is to understand you and your brothers as you grow up 
 to be men. But I hate interference and I hate curiosity 
 — the one breeds opposition and the other dishonesty — ■ 
 and if the other boys turn out to be as reticent as you, 
 Orsino, I shall not always know when they want me. 
 You do not realise how much you have been away from 
 me since you were a boy, nor how silent you have grown 
 when you are at home." 
 
 "Am I, mother? I never meant to be." 
 
 " I know it, dear, and I do not want you to be always 
 confiding in me. It is not a good thing for a young man. 
 You are strong and the more you rely upon yourself, the 
 stronger you will grow. But when you want sympathy, 
 if you ever do, remember that I have my whole heart full 
 of it for you. For that, at least, come to me. No one 
 can give you what I can give you, dear son." 
 
 Orsino was touched and pressed her hand, kissing it 
 more than once. He did not know whether in her last 
 words she had meant any allusion to Maria Consuelo, or 
 whether, indeed, she had been aware of his intimacy 
 with the latter. But he did not ask the question of her 
 nor of himself. For the moment he felt that a want in 
 his nature had been satisfied, and he wondered again 
 why he had never thought of confiding in his mother. 
 
208 DON OESINO. 
 
 . They talked of his plans until it was late, and from 
 that time they were more often together than before, 
 each growing daily more proud of the other, thougt per- 
 haps Orsino had better reasons for his pride than Corona 
 could have found, for the love of mother for son is more 
 comprehensive and not less blind than the passion of 
 woman for man. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The short Eoman season was advancing rapidly to its 
 premature fall, which is on Ash Wednesday, after which 
 it struggles to hold up its head against the overwhelm- 
 ing odds of a severely observed Lent, to revive only 
 spasmodically after Easter and to die a natural death on 
 the iirst warm day. In that year, too, the fatal day fell 
 on the fifteenth of February,- and progressive spirits 
 talked of the possibility of fixing the movable Feasts 
 and Fasts of the Church in a more convenient part of the 
 calendar. Easter might be made to fall in June, for 
 instance, and society need not be informed of its in- 
 evitable and impending return to dust and ashes until it 
 had enjoyed a good three months, or even four, of what 
 an eminent American defines as " brass, sass, lies and sin." 
 
 Rome was very gay that year, to compensate for the 
 shortness of its playtime. Everything was successful, 
 and every one was rich. People talked of millions less 
 soberly than they had talked of thousands a few years ear- 
 lier, and with less respect than they mentioned hundreds 
 twelve months later. Like the vanity-struck frog, the 
 franc blew itself up to the bursting point, in the hope of 
 being taken for the louis, and momentarily succeeded, 
 even beyond its own expectations. No one walked, 
 though horse-flesh was enormously dear and a good 
 coachman's wages amounted to just twice the salary of 
 a government clerk. Men who, six months earlier, had 
 
DON ORSINO. 209 
 
 climbed ladders with loads of brick or mortar, were now 
 transformed into flourishing siib-contractors, and drove 
 about in smart pony-carts, looking the picture of Italian 
 prosperity, rejoicing in the most flashy of ties and smok- 
 ing the blackest and longest of long black cigars. Dur- 
 ing twenty hours out of the twenty-four the gates of the 
 city roared with traffic. From all parts of the country 
 labourers poured in, bundle in hand and tools on shoulder 
 to joia in the enormous work and earn their share of the 
 pay that was distributed so liberally. A certain man 
 who believed in himself stood up and said that Eome 
 was becoming one of the greatest of cities, and he 
 smacked his lips and said that he had done it, and that 
 the Triple Alliance was a goose which would lay many 
 golden eggs. The believing bulls roared everything away 
 before them, opposition, objections, financial experience, 
 and the vanquished bears hibernated in secret places, 
 sucking their paws and wondering what, in the name of 
 Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, would happen next. Dis- 
 tinguished men wrote pamphlets in the most distinguished 
 language to prove that wealth was a baby capable of 
 being hatched artificially and brought up by hand. 
 Every unmarried swain who could find a bride, married 
 her forthwith ; those who could not followed the advice 
 of an illustrious poet and, being over-anxious to take 
 wives, took those of others. Everybody was decorated. 
 It positively rained decorations and hailed grand crosses 
 and enough commanders' ribbons were reeled out to have 
 hanged half the population. The periodical attempt to 
 revive the defunct carnival in the Corso was made, and 
 the yet unburied corpse of ancient gaiety was taken out 
 and painted, and gorgeously arrayed, and propped up in 
 its seat to be a posthumous terror to its enemies, like 
 the dead Cid. Society danced frantically and did all 
 those things which it ought not to have done — and added 
 a few more, unconsciously imitating Pico della Mirandola. 
 Even those comparatively few families who, like the 
 Saracinesca, had scornfully declined to dabble in the 
 
210 DON OESINO. 
 
 whirlpool of affairs, did not by any means refuse to 
 dance to the music of success which filled the city with 
 such enchanting strains. The Princess Befana rose from 
 her deathbed With more than usual Tivacity and went to 
 the length of opening her palace on two evenings in two 
 successive weeks, to the intense delight of her gay and 
 youthful heirs, who earnestly hoped that the excitement 
 might kill her at last, and kill her beyond resurrec- 
 tion this time. But they were disappointed. She still 
 dies periodically in winter and blooms out again in 
 spring with the poppies, affording a perpetual and edify- 
 ing illustration of the changes of the year, or, as some 
 say, of the doctrine of immortality. On one of those 
 memorable occasions she walked through a quadrille with 
 the aged Prince Saraoinesca, whereupon Sant' Ilario 
 slipped his arm round Corona's waist and waltzed with 
 her down the whole length of the ballroom and back 
 again amidst the applause of his contemporaries and 
 their children. If Orsino had had a wife he would have 
 followed their example. As it was, he looked rather 
 gloomily in the direction of a silent and high-born damsel 
 with whom he was condemned to dance the cotillon at a 
 later hour. 
 
 So all went gaily on until Ash Wednesday extinguished 
 the social flame, suddenly and beyond relighting. And 
 still Orsino did not meet Maria Consuelo, and still he 
 hesitated to make another attempt to find her at home. 
 He began to wonder whether he should ever see her 
 again, and as the days went by he almost wished that 
 Donna TuUia would send him a card for her lenten even- 
 ings, at which- Maria Consuelo regularly assisted as he 
 learned from the papers. After that first invitation to 
 dinner, he had expected that Del Perice's wife would 
 make an attempt to draw him into her circle ; and, in- 
 deed, she would probably have done so had she followed 
 her own instinct instead of submitting to the higher policy 
 dictated by her husband. Orsino waited in vain, not 
 knowing whether to be annoyed at the lack of considera- 
 
DON OBSINO. 211 
 
 tion bestowed upon him, or to admire the tact which 
 assumed that he would never wish to enter the Del Ferice 
 circle. 
 
 It is presumably clear that Orsino was not in love with 
 Madame d'Araujuez, and he himself appreciated the fact 
 with a sense of disappointment. He was amazed at his 
 own coldness and at the indifference with which he had 
 submitted to what amounted to a most abrupt dismissal. 
 He even went so far as to believe that Maria Consuelo 
 had repulsed him designedly in the hope of kindling a 
 more sincere passion. In that case she had been egre- 
 giously mistaken, he thought. He felt a curiosity to see 
 her again before she left Eome, but it was nothing more 
 than that. A new and absorbing interest had taken 
 possession of him which at first left little room in his 
 nature for anything else. His days were spent in the 
 laborious study of figures and plans, broken only by 
 occasional short but amusing conversations with Andrea 
 Contini. His evenings were generally passed among a 
 set of people who did not know Maria Consuelo except 
 by sight and who had long ceased to ask him questions 
 about her. Of late, too, he had missed his daily visits 
 to her less and less, until he hardly regretted them at 
 all, nor so much as thought of the possibility of renewing 
 them. He laughed at the idea that his mother should 
 have taken the place of a woman whom he had begun to 
 love, and yet he was conscious that it was so, though he 
 asked himself how long such a condition of things could 
 last. Corona was far too wise to discuss his affairs with 
 his father. He was too like herself for her to misunder- 
 stand him, and if she regarded the whole matter as per- 
 fectly harmless and as a legitimate subject for general con- 
 versation, she yet understood perfectly that having been 
 once rebuffed by Sant' Ilario, Orsino must wish to be 
 fully successful in his attempt before mentioning it 
 again to the latter. And she felt so strongly in sym- 
 pathy with her son that his work gradually acquired an 
 intense interest for her, and she would have sacrifiecd 
 
212 DON OESINO. 
 
 much rather than see it fail. She did not on that account 
 blame Giovanni for his discouraging view when Orsino 
 had consulted him. Giovanni was the passion of her life 
 and was not fallible in his impulses, though his judg- 
 ment might sometimes be at fault in technical matters 
 for which he cared nothing. But her love for her son 
 was as great and sincere in its own way, and her pride in 
 him was such as to make his success a condition of her 
 future happiness. 
 
 One of the greatest novelists of this age begins one of 
 his greatest novels with the remark that "all happy 
 families resemble each other, but that every unhappy 
 family is unhappy in its own especial way." Generali- 
 ties are dangerous in proportion as they are witty or 
 striking, or both, and it may be asked whether the great 
 Tolstoi has not fallen a victim to his own extraordinary 
 p6wer of striking and witty generalisations. Does the 
 greatest of all his generalisations, the wide disclaimer of 
 his early opinions expressed in the postscript subse- 
 quently attached by him to his Kreutzer Sonata, include 
 also the words I have quoted, and which were set up, so 
 to say, as the theme of his Anna Karjenina? One may 
 almost hope so. I am no critic, but those words some- 
 how seem to me to mean that only unhappiness can be 
 interesting. It is not pleasant to think of the conse- 
 quences to which the acceptance of such a statement 
 might lead. 
 
 There are no statistics to tell us whether the majority 
 of living men and women are to be considered as happy 
 or unhappy. But it does seem true that whereas a single 
 circumstance can cause very great and lasting unhappi- 
 ness, felicity is always dependent upon more than one 
 condition and often upon so many as to make the ex- 
 planation of it a highly difficult and complicated matter. 
 
 Corona had assuredly little reason to complain of her 
 lot during the past twenty years, but unruffled and per- 
 fect as it had seemed to her she began to see that there 
 were sources of sorrow and satisfaction before her which 
 
DON OESINO. 213 
 
 had not yet poured their bitter or sweet streams into the 
 stately river of her mature life. The new interest which 
 Orsino had created for her became more and more absorb- 
 ing, and she watched it and tended it, and longed to see 
 it grow to greater proportions. The situation was strange 
 ji^n one way at least. Orsino was working and his mother 
 was helping him to work in the hope of a financial suc- 
 cess which neither of them wanted or cared for. Possi- 
 bly the certainty that failure could entail no serious 
 consequences made the game a more amusing if a less 
 exciting one to play. 
 
 "If I lose," said Orsino to her, "I can only lose the 
 few thousands I invested. If I win, I will give you a 
 string of pearls as a keepsake." 
 
 "If you lose, dear boy," answered Corona, "it must be 
 because you had not enough to begin with. I will give 
 you as much as you need, and we will try again." 
 
 They laughed happily together. Whatever chanced, 
 things must turn out well. Orsino worked very hard, 
 and Corona was very rich in her own right and could 
 afford to help to any extent she thought necessary. She 
 could, indeed, have taken the part of the bank and ad- 
 vanced him all the money he needed, but it seemed use- 
 less to interfere with the existing arrangements. 
 
 In Lent the house had reached an important point in 
 its existence. Andrea Contini had completed the Gothic 
 roof and the turret which appeared to him in the first 
 vision of his dream, but to which the defunct baker had 
 made objections on the score of expense. The masons 
 were almost all gone and another set of workmen were 
 busy with finer tools moulding cornices and laying on 
 the snow-white stucco. Within, the joiners and carpen- 
 ters kept up a ceaseless hammering. 
 
 One day Andrea Contini walked into the office after a 
 tour of inspection, with a whole cigar, unlighted and 
 intact, between his teeth. Orsino was well aware from 
 this circumstance that something unusually fortunate 
 had happened or was about to happen, and he rose from 
 
214 DON OKSINO. 
 
 his books, as soon as he recognised the fair-weather 
 signal. 
 
 "We can sell the house whenever we like," said the 
 architect, his bright brown eyes sparkling with satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 "Already!" exclaimed Orsino who, though equallj;^ 
 delighted at the prospect of such speedy success, re- 
 gretted in his heart the damp walls and the constant stir 
 of work which he had learned to like so well. 
 
 "Already — yes. One needs luck like ours! The 
 count has sent a man up in a cab to say that an ac- 
 quaintance of his will come and look at the building to- 
 day between twelve and one with a view to buying. The 
 sooner we look out for some fresh undertaking, the better. 
 What do you say, Don Orsino?" 
 
 " It is all your doing, Contini. Without you I should 
 still be standing outside and watching the mattings flap- 
 ping in the wind, as I did on that never-to-be-forgotten 
 first day." 
 
 " I conceive that a house cannot be built without an 
 architect," answered Contini, laughing, "and it has al- 
 ways been plain to me that there can be no architects 
 without houses to build. But as for any especial credit 
 to me, I refute the charge indignantly. I except the 
 matter of the turret, which is evidently what has at- 
 tracted the buyer. I always thought it would. You 
 would never have thought of a turret, would you, Don 
 Orsino? " 
 
 "Certainly not, nor of many other things," answered 
 Orsino, laughing. " But I am sorry to leave the place. 
 I have grown into liking it." 
 
 "What can one do? It is the way of the world — 'lieto 
 ricordo d'un amor che fu, ' " sang Contini in the thin but 
 expressive falsetto which seems to be the natural inheri- 
 tance of men who play upon stringed instruments. He 
 broke off in the middle of a bar and laughed, out of sheer 
 delight at his own good fortune. 
 
 In due time the purchaser came, saw and actually 
 
DON ORSINO. 215 
 
 bought. He was a problematic personage with a dis- 
 quieting nose, who spoke few words but examined every- 
 thing with an air of superior comprehension. He looked 
 keenly at Orsino but seemed to have no idea who he was 
 and put all his questions to Contini. 
 
 After agreeing to the purchase he inquired whether 
 Andrea Contini and Company had any other houses of 
 the same description building and if so where they were 
 situated, adding that he liked the firm's way of doing 
 things. He stipulated for one or two slight improve- 
 ments, made an appointment for a meeting with the 
 notaries on the following day and went off with a rather 
 unceremonious nod to the partners. The name he left 
 was that of a well-known capitalist from the south, and 
 Contini was inclined to think he had seen him before, 
 but was not certain. 
 
 Within a week the business was concluded, the buyer 
 took over the mortgage as Orsino and Contini had done 
 and paid the difference in cash into the bank, which 
 deducted the amounts due on notes of hand before hand- 
 ing the remainder to the two young men. The buyer 
 also kept back a small part of the purchase money to be 
 paid on taking possession, when the house was to be 
 entirely finished. Andrea Contini and Company had 
 realised a considerable sum of money. 
 
 "The question is, what to do next," said Orsino 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " We had better look about us for something promis- 
 ing," said his partner. "A corner lot in this same quar- 
 ter. Corner houses are more interesting to build and" 
 people like them to live in because they can see two or 
 three ways at once. Besides, a corner is always a good 
 place for a turret. Let us take a walk — smoking and 
 strolling, we shall find something." 
 
 "A year ago, no doubt," answered Orsino, who was 
 becoming worldly wise. "A year ago that would have 
 been well enough". But listen to me. That house oppo- 
 site to ours has been finished some time, yet nobody has 
 bought it. What is the reason? " 
 
216 DON OESINO. 
 
 " It faces north and not south, as ours does, and it has 
 not a Gothic roof." 
 
 "My dear Contini, I do not mean to say that the 
 Gothic roof has not helped us very much, but it cannot 
 have helped us alone. How about those two houses to- 
 gether at the end of the next block. Balconies, traver- 
 tine columns, superior doors and windows, spaces for 
 hydraulic lifts and all the rest of it. Yet no one buys. 
 Dry, too, and almost ready to live in, and all the joinery 
 of pitch pine. There is a reason for their ill luck." 
 
 " What do you think it is? " asked Contini, opening his 
 eyes. 
 
 " The land on which they are built was not in the hands 
 of Del Perice's bank, and the money that built them was 
 not advanced by Del Ferice's bank, and Del Periee's 
 bank has no interest in selling the houses themselves. 
 Therefore they are not sold." 
 
 "But surely there are other banks in Eome, and pri- 
 vate individuals " 
 
 "No, I do not believe that there are," said Orsino 
 with conviction. "My cousin of San Giacinto thinks 
 that the selling days are over, and I fancy he is right, 
 except about Del Perice, who is cleverer than any of us. 
 We had better not deceive ourselves, Contini. Del 
 Ferice sold our house for us, and unless we keep with 
 him we shall not sell another so easily. His bank has a 
 lot of half -finished houses on its hands secured by mort- 
 gages which are worthless until the houses are habitable. 
 Del Ferice wants us to finish those houses for him, in 
 order to recover their value. If we do it, we shall make 
 a profit. If we attempt anything on our own account we 
 shall fail. Am I right or not?" 
 
 "What can I say? At all events you are on the safe 
 side. But why has not the count given all this work to 
 some old established firm of his acquaintance?" 
 
 "Because he cannot trust any one as he can trust us, 
 and he knows it." 
 
 " Of course I owe the count a great deal for his kind- 
 
DON OBSINO. 217 
 
 ness in introducing me to you. He knew all about me 
 before the baker died, and afterwards I waited for him 
 outside the Chambers one evening and asked him if he 
 could find anything for me to do, but he did not give me 
 much encouragement. I saw you speak to him and get 
 into his carriage — was it not you? " 
 
 "Yes — it was I," answered Orsino, remembering the 
 tall man in an overcoat who had disappeared in the dusk 
 oq^ the evening when he himself had first sought Del 
 Ferice. " Yes, and you see we are both under a sort of 
 obligation to him which is another reason for taking his 
 advice." 
 
 " Obligations are humiliating ! " exclaimed Contini im- 
 patiently. " We have succeeded in increasing our capi- 
 tal — your capital, Don Orsino — let us strike out for 
 ourselves." 
 
 " I think my reasons are good," said Orsino quietly. 
 "And as for obligations, let us remember that we are 
 men of business." 
 
 It appears from this that the low-born Andrea Contini 
 and the high and mighty Don Orsino Saracinesca were 
 not very far from exchanging places so far as prejudice 
 was concerned. Contini noticed the fact and smiled. 
 
 "After all," he said, "if you can accept the situation, 
 I ought to accept it, too." 
 
 "It is a matter of business," said Orsino, returning to 
 his argument. "There is no such thing as obligation 
 where money is borrowed on good security and a large 
 interest is regularly paid." 
 
 It was clear that Orsino was developing commercial 
 instincts. His grandfather would have died of rage on 
 the spot if he could have listened to the young fellow's 
 cool utterances. But Contini was not pleased and would 
 not abandon his position so easily. 
 
 "It is very well for you, Don Orsino," he said, vainly 
 attempting to light his cigar. "You do not need the 
 money as I do. You take it from Del Ferice because it 
 amuses you to do so, not because you are obliged to 
 
218 DON OESINO. 
 
 accept it. That is the difference. The count knows it 
 too, and knows that he is not conferring a favour but 
 receiving one. You do him an honour in borrowing his 
 money. He lays me under an obligation in lending it." 
 
 "We must get money somewhere," answered Orsino 
 with indifference. " If not from Del Ferice, then from 
 some other bank. And as for obligations, as you call 
 them, he is not the bank himself, and the bank does not 
 lend its money in order to amuse me or to humiliate you, 
 my friend. But if you insist, I shall say that the con- 
 venience is not on one side only. If Del Ferice supports 
 us it is because we serve his interests. If he has done 
 us a good turn, it is a reason why we should do him one, 
 and build his houses rather than those of other people. 
 You talk about my conferring a favour upon him. Where 
 will he find another Andrea Contini and Company to 
 make worthless property valuable for him? In that sense 
 you and I are earning his gratitude, by the simple proc- 
 ess of being scrupulously honest. I do not feel in the 
 least humiliated, I assure you." 
 
 "I cannot help it," replied Contini, biting his cigar 
 savagely. " I have a heart, and it beats with good blood. 
 Do you know that there is blood of Cola di Eienzo in 
 my veins?" 
 
 " No. You never told me, " answered Orsino, one of 
 whose forefathers had been concerned in the murder of 
 the tribune, a fact to which he thought it best not to 
 refer at the present moment. 
 
 "And the blood of Cola di Eienzo burns under the 
 shame of an obligation ! " cried Contini, with a heat hardly 
 warranted by the circumstances. " It is humiliating, it 
 is base, to submit to be the tool of a Del Ferice — we all 
 know who and what Del Ferice was, and how he came 
 by his title of count, and how he got his fortune — a spy, 
 an intriguer! In a good cause? Perhaps. I was not 
 born then, nor you either, Signer Principe, and we do 
 not know what the world was like, when it was quite 
 another world. That is not a reason for serving a spy ! " 
 
DON ORSINO. 219 
 
 • "Calm yourself, my friend. We are not in Del 
 Ferice's service." 
 
 " Better to die than that ! Better to kill him at once 
 and go to the galleys for a few years ! Better to play the 
 fiddle, or pick rags, or beg in the streets than that. Signer 
 Principe. One must respect oneself . You see it yourself . 
 One must be a man, and feel as a man. One must feel 
 those things here. Signer Principe, here in the heart! " 
 
 Contini struck his breast with his clenched fist and bit 
 the end of his cigar quite through in his anger. Then 
 he suddenly seized his hat and rushed out of the room. 
 
 Orsino was less surprised at the outburst than might 
 have been expected, and did not attach any great weight 
 to his partner's dramatic rage. But he lit a cigarette 
 and carefully thought over the situation, trying to find out 
 whether there were really any ground for Contini's first 
 remarks. He was perfectly well aware that as Orsino 
 Saracinesca he would cut his own throat with enthusiasm 
 rather than borrow a louis of Ugo Del Ferice. But as 
 Andrea Contini and Company he was another person, 
 and so Del Ferice was not Count Del Ferice, nor the 
 Onorevole Del Ferice, but simply a director in a bank 
 with which he had business. If the interests of Andrea 
 Contini and Company were identical with those of the 
 bank, there was no reason whatever for interrupting rela- 
 tions both amicable and profitable, merely because one 
 member of the firm claimed to be descended from Cola 
 di Kienzo, a defunct personage in whom Orsino felt no 
 interest whatever. Andrea Contini, considering his 
 social relations, might be on terms of friendship with 
 his hatter, for instance, or might have personal reasons 
 for disliking him. In neither case could the buying of 
 a hat from that individual be looked upon as an obliga- 
 tion conferred or received by either party. This was 
 quite clear, and Orsino was satisfied. 
 
 "Business is business," he said to himself, "and peo- 
 ple who introduce personal considerations into a finan- 
 cial transaction will get ^e worst of the bargain." 
 
220 DON OBSINO. 
 
 Andrea Contini was apparently of the same opinion^ 
 for when he entered the room again at the end of an 
 hour his excitement had quite disappeared. 
 
 "If we take another contract from the count," he said, 
 " is there any reason why we should not take a larger 
 one, if it is to be had? We could manage three or four 
 buildings now that you have become such a good book- 
 keeper. " 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion, " Orsino answered, decid- 
 ing at once to make no reference to what had gone before. 
 
 " The only question is, whether we have capital enough 
 for a margin." 
 
 "Leave that to me." 
 
 Orsino determined to consult his mother, in whose 
 judgment he felt a confidence which he could not explain 
 but which was not misplaced. The fact was simple 
 enough. Corona understood him thoroughly, though her 
 comprehension of his business was more than limited, 
 and she did nothing in reality but encourage his own 
 sober opinion when it happened to be at variance with 
 some enthusiastic inclination which momentarily deluded 
 him. That quiet pushing of a man's own better reason 
 against his half considered but often headstrong im- 
 pulses, is after all one of the best and most loving 
 services which a wise woman can render to a man whom 
 she loves, be he husband, son or brother. Many women 
 have no other secret, and indeed there are few more 
 valuable ones, if well used and well kept. But let not 
 graceless man discover that it is used upon him. He 
 will resent being led by his own reason far more than 
 being made the senseless slave of a foolish woman's 
 wildest caprice. To select the best of himself for his 
 own u'se is to trample upon his free will. To send 
 him barefoot to Jericho in search of a dried flower is to 
 appeal to his heart. Man is a reasoning animal. 
 
 Corona, as was to be expected, was triumphant in 
 Orsino's first success, and spent as much time in talking 
 over the past and the future with him as she could com- 
 
DON OESINO. 221 
 
 mand during his own hours of liberty. He needed no 
 urging to continue in the same course, but he enjoyed 
 her happiness and delighted in her encouragement. 
 
 "Contini wishes to take a large contract," he said 
 to her, after the interview last described. " I agree with 
 hini, in a way. We could certainly manage a larger 
 business." 
 
 "No doubt," Corona answered thoughtfully, for she 
 saw that there was some objection to the scheme in his 
 own mind. 
 
 "I have learned a great deal," he continued, "and we 
 hare much more capital than we had. Besides, I sup- 
 pose you would lend me a few thousands if we needed 
 them, would you not, mother? " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear. You shall not be hampered by 
 want of money." 
 
 " And then, it is possible that we might make some- 
 thing like a fortune in a short time. It would be a great 
 satisfaction. But then, too — —" He stopped. 
 
 "What then?" asked Corona, smiling. 
 
 "Things may turn out differently. Though I have 
 been successful this time, I am much more inclined to 
 believe that San Giacinto was right than I was before 
 I began. All this movement does not rest on a solid 
 basis." 
 
 A financier of thirty years' standing could not have 
 made the statement more impressively, and Orsino was 
 conscious that he was assuming an elderly tone. He 
 laughed the next moment. 
 
 "That is a stock phrase, mother," he continued. 
 "But it means something. Everything is not what it 
 should be. If the demand were as great as people say 
 it is, there would not be half a dozen houses — better 
 houses than ours — ^unsold in our street. That is why I 
 am afraid of a big contract. I might lose all my money 
 and some of yours." 
 
 "It would not be of much consequence if you did," 
 answered Corona. " But of course you will be guided 
 
222 DON ORSINO. 
 
 by your own judgment, which is much better than mine. 
 One must risk something, of course, but there is no use 
 in going into danger." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I should enjoy a big venture im- 
 mensely." 
 
 " There is no reason why you should not try one, when 
 the moment comes, my dear. I suppose that a few 
 months will decide whether there is to be a crisis or not. 
 In the meantime you might take something moderate, 
 neither so small as the last, nor so large as you would 
 like. You will get more experience, risk less, and be 
 better prepared for a crash if it comes, or to take ad- 
 vantage of anything favourable if business grows safer." 
 
 Orsino was silent for a moment. 
 
 "You are very wise, mother," he said. "I will take 
 your advice." 
 
 Corona had indeed acted as wisely as she could. The 
 only flaw in her reasoning was her assertion that a few 
 months would decide the fate of Eoman affairs. If it 
 were possible to predict a crisis even within a few 
 months, speculation would be a less precarious business 
 than it is. 
 
 Orsino and his mother might have talked longer and 
 perhaps to better purpose, but they were interrupted by 
 the entrance of a servant, bearing a note. Corona in- 
 stinctively put out her hand to receive it. 
 
 "For Don Orsino," said the man, stopping before him. 
 
 Orsino took the letter, looked at it and turned it over. 
 
 " I think it is from Madame d'Aranjuez," he remarked, 
 without emotion. "May I read it?" 
 
 "There is no answer, Eccellenza," said the servant, 
 whose curiosity was satisfied. 
 
 "Bead it, of course," said Corona, looking at him. 
 
 She was surprised that Madame d'Aranjuez should 
 write to him, but she was still more astonished to see 
 the indifference with which he opened the missive. Sho 
 had imagined that he was more or less in love with Maria 
 Consuelo. 
 
DON ORSINO. 223 
 
 "I fancy it is the other way," she thought. "The 
 woman wants to marry him. I might have suspected it. " 
 
 Orsino read the note, and tossed it into the fire with- 
 out volunteering any- information. 
 
 "I will take your advice, mother," he said, continuing 
 the former conversation, as though nothing had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 But the subject seemed to be exhausted, and before 
 long Orsino made an excuse to his mother and went out. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 There was nothing in the note burnt by Orsino which 
 he might not have shown to his mother, since he had 
 already told her the name of the writer. It contained 
 the simple statement that Maria Consuelo was about to 
 leave Rome, and expressed the hope that she might see 
 Orsino before her departure as she had a small reqiiest 
 to make of him, in the nature of a commission. She 
 hoped he would forgive her for putting him to so much 
 inconvenience. 
 
 Though he betrayed no emotion in reading the few 
 lines, he was in reality annoyed by them, and he wished 
 that he might be prevented from obeying the summons. 
 Maria Consuelo had virtually dropped the acquaintance, 
 and had refused repeatedly and in a marked way to re- 
 ceive him. And now, at the last moment, when she 
 needed something of him, she chose to recall him by a 
 direct invitation. There was nothing to be done but to 
 yield, and it was characteristic of Orsino that, having 
 submitted to necessity, he did not put off the inevitable 
 moment, but went to her at once. 
 
 The days were longer now than they had been during 
 the time when he had visited her every day, and the 
 lamp was not yet on the table when Orsino entered the 
 
224 DON ORSINO. 
 
 small sitting-room. Maria Consuelo was standing by 
 the window, looking out into the street, and her right 
 hand rested against the pane while her fingers tapped it 
 softly but impatiently. She turned quickly as he en- 
 tered, but the light was behind her and he could hardly 
 see her face. She came towards him and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " It is very kiad of you to have come so soon," she 
 said, as she took her old accustomed place by the table. 
 
 Nothing was changed, excepting that the two or three 
 new books at her elbow were not the same ones which 
 had been there two months earlier. In one of them was 
 thrust the silver paper-cutter with the jewelled handle, 
 which Orsino had never missed. He wondered whether 
 there were any reason for the unvarying sameness of 
 these details. 
 
 " Of course I came," he said. "And as there was time 
 to-day, I came at once." 
 
 He spoke rather coldly, still resenting her former 
 behaviour and expecting that she would immediately say 
 what she wanted of him. He would promise to execute 
 the commission, whatever it might be, and after ten 
 minutes of conversation he would take his leave. There 
 was a short pause, during which he looked at her. She 
 did not seem well. Her face was pale and her eyes were 
 deep with shadows. Even her auburn hair had lost 
 something of its gloss. Yet she did not look older than 
 before, a fact which proved her to be even younger than 
 Orsino had imagined. Saving the look of fatigue and 
 suffering in her face, Maria Consuelo had changed less 
 than Orsino during the winter, and she realised the fact 
 at a glance. A determined purpose, hard work, the con- 
 stant exertion of energy and will, and possibly, too, the 
 giving up to a great extent of gambling and strong 
 drinks, had told in Orsino's face and manner as a course 
 of training tells upon a lazy athlete. The bold black 
 eyes had a more quiet glance, the well-marked features 
 had acquired strength and reposef the lean jaw was 
 
DON ORSIKO. 225 
 
 firmer and seemed more square. E^en physically, Orsino 
 had improved, though the change was undefinable. 
 Young as he was, something of the power of mature 
 manhood was already coming over his youth. 
 
 "You must have thought me very — rude," said Maria 
 Consuelo, breaking the silence and speaking with a slight 
 hesitation which Orsino had never noticed before. 
 
 "It is not for me to complain, Madame," he answered. 
 " You had every right " 
 
 He stopped short, for he was reluctant to admit that 
 she had been justified in her behaviour towards him. 
 
 "Thanks," she said, with an attempt to laugh. "It 
 is pleasant to find magnanimous people now and then. 
 I do not want you to think that I was capricious. That 
 is all." 
 
 " I certainly do not think that. You were most con- 
 sistent. I called three times and always got the same 
 answer." 
 
 He fancied that he heard her sigh, but she tried to 
 laugh again. 
 
 "I am not imaginative," she answered. "I daresay 
 you found that out long go. You have much more 
 imagination than I." 
 
 " It is possible, Madame — but you have not cared to 
 develop it." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "What does it matter? Do you remember what you 
 said when I bade you good-night at the window of your 
 carriage after Del Periee's dinner? You said that you 
 were not angry with me. I was foolish enough to 
 imagine that you were in earnest. I came again and 
 again, but you would- not see me. You did not encourage 
 my illusion." 
 
 " Because I would not receive you? How do you know 
 what happened to me? How can you judge of my life? 
 By your own? There is a vast difference." 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Orsino almost impatiently. 
 "■ I know what you are going to say. It will be flattering 
 
226 DON OEsmo. 
 
 to me of course. The unattached young man is danger- 
 ous to the reputation. The foreign lady is travelling 
 alone. There is the foundation of a vaudeville in that! " 
 
 " If you must be unjust, at least do not be brutal, " said 
 Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and she turned her face 
 away from him. 
 
 " I am evidently placed in the world to offend you, 
 Madame. Will you believe that I am sorry for it, 
 though I only dimly comprehend my fault? What did 
 I say?' That you were wise in breaking off my visits, 
 because you are alone here, and because I am young, 
 unmarried and unfortunately a little conspicuous in my 
 native city. Is it brutal to suggest that a young and 
 beautiful woman has a right not to be compromised? 
 Can we not talk freely for half an hour, as we used to 
 talk, and then say good-bye and part good friends until 
 you come to Rome again? " 
 
 " I wish we could ! " There was an accent of sincerity 
 in the tone which pleased Orsino. 
 
 " Then begin by forgiving me all my sins, and put 
 them down to ignorance, want of tact, the inexperience 
 of youth or a naturally weak understanding. But do 
 not call me brutal on such slight provocation." 
 
 " We shall never agree for a long time, " answered 
 Maria Consuelo thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because, as I told you, there is too great a difference 
 between our lives. Do net answer me as you did before, 
 for I am right. I began by admitting that I was rude. 
 If that is not enough I will say more — I will even ask 
 you to forgive me — can I do more? " 
 
 She spoke so earnestly that Orsino was surprised and 
 almost touched. Her manner now was even less compre- 
 hensible than her repeated refusals to see him had been. 
 
 "You have done far too much already," he said 
 gravely. "It is mine to ask your forgiveness for much 
 that I have done and said. I only wish that I under- 
 stood you better." 
 
DON OESINO. 227 
 
 "I am glad you do not," replied Maria Consuelo, with 
 a sigh which this time was not to be mistaken. "There 
 is a sadness which it is better not to understand," she 
 added softly. 
 
 "Unless one can help to drive it away." He, too, 
 spoke gently, his voice being attracted to the pitch and 
 tone of hers. 
 
 "You cannot do that — and if you could, you would 
 not." 
 
 "Who can tell?" 
 
 The charm which he had formerly felt so keenly in 
 her presence but which he had of late so completely for- 
 gotten, was beginning to return and he submitted to it 
 with a sense of satisfaction which he had not anticipated. 
 Though the twilight was coming on, his eyes had become 
 accustomed to the dimness in the room and he saw every 
 change in her pale, expressive face. She leaned back in 
 her chair with eyes half closed. 
 
 "I like to think that you would, if you knew how," 
 she said presently. 
 
 " Do you not know that I would? " 
 
 She glanced quickly at him, and then, instead of an- 
 swering, rose from her seat and called to her maid 
 through one of the doors, telling her to bring the lamp. 
 She sat down again, but being conscious that they were 
 liable to interruption, neither of the two spoke. Maria 
 Consuelo's fingers played with the silver knife, drawing 
 it out of the book in which it lay and pushing it back 
 again. At last she took it up and looked closely at the 
 jewelled monogram on the handle. 
 
 The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table 
 and glanced sharply at Orsino. He could not help notic- 
 ing the look. In a moment she was gone, and the door 
 closed behind her. Maria Consuelo looked over her 
 shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar. 
 
 " She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid 
 of mine," she said. 
 
 "So I should imagine from her face." 
 
228 DON OESINO. 
 
 " Yes. She looked at you as she passed and I saw 
 that you noticed it. She is my protector. I never have 
 travelled without her and she watches over me — as a cat 
 watches a mouse." 
 
 The little laugh that accompanied the words was not 
 one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not 
 escape Orsino. 
 
 " I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways 
 one submits because one cannot live without them," he 
 observed. 
 
 " Yes. That is it. That is exactly it, " repeated Maria 
 Consuelo. "And she is very strongly attached to me," 
 she added after an instant's hesitation. " I do not think 
 she will ever leave me. In fact we are attached to each 
 other." 
 
 She laughed again as though amused by her own way 
 of stating the relation, and drew the paper-cutter through 
 her hand two or three times. Orsino's eyes were oddly 
 fascinated by the flash of the jewels. 
 
 " I would like to know the history of that knife, " he 
 said, almost thoughtlessly. 
 
 Maria Consuelo started and looked at him, paler even 
 than before. The question seemed to be a very ujiex- 
 pected one. 
 
 "Why?" she asked quickly. 
 
 " I always see it on the table or in your hand, " an- 
 swered Orsino. " It is associated with you — I think of 
 it when I think of you. I always fancy that it has a 
 story." 
 
 " You are right. It was given to me by a person who 
 loved me." 
 
 "I see — I was indiscreet." 
 
 " No — you do not see, my friend. . If you did you — 
 you would understand many things, and perhaps it is 
 better that you. should not know them." 
 
 "Your sadness? Should I understand that, too?" 
 
 "No. Not that." 
 
 A slight colour rose in her face, and she stretched out 
 
DON OESINO. 229 
 
 her hand to arrange the shade of the lamp, with a gesture 
 long familiar to him. 
 
 "We shall end by misunderstanding each other," she 
 continued in a harder tone. "Perhaps it will be my 
 fault. I wish you knew much more about me than you 
 do, but without the necessity of telling you the story. 
 But that is impossible. This paper-cutter — for instance, 
 could tell the tale better than I, for it made people see 
 things which I did not see." 
 
 "After it was yours?" 
 
 "Yes. After it was mine." 
 
 "It pleases you to be very mysterious," said Orsino 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Oh no! It does not please me at all," she answered, 
 turning her face away again. "And least of all with 
 you — my friend." 
 
 "Why least with me?" 
 
 "Because you are the first to misunderstand. You 
 cannot help it. I do not blame you." 
 
 "If you would let me be your friend, as you call me, 
 it would be better for us both." 
 
 He spoke as he had assuredly not meant to speak when 
 he had entered the room, and with a feeling that sur- 
 prised himself far more than his hearer. Maria Con- 
 suelo turned sharply upon him. 
 
 " Have you acted like a friend towards me? " she asked. 
 
 " I have tried to, " he answered, with more presence of 
 mind than truth. 
 
 Her tawny eyes suddenly lightened. 
 
 " That is not true. Be truthful ! How have you acted, 
 how have you spoken with me? Are you ashamed to 
 answer?" 
 
 Orsino raised his head rather haughtily, and met her 
 glance, wondering whether any man had ever been forced 
 into such a strange position before. But though her eyes 
 were bright, their look was neither cold nor defiant. 
 
 " You know the answer," he said. " I spoke and acted 
 as though I loved you, Madame, but since you dismissed 
 
230 DON OESINO. 
 
 me so very summarily, I do not see why you wish me to 
 say so." 
 
 " And you, Don Orsino, have you ever been loved — 
 loved in earnest— by any woman? " 
 
 "That is a very strange question, Madame." 
 
 "I am discreet. You may answer it safely." 
 
 "I have no doubt of that." 
 
 "But you will not? JSTo — that is your right. But it 
 would be kind of you — I should be grateful if you would 
 tell me — has any woman ever loved you dearly?" 
 
 Orsino laughed, almost in spite of himself. He had 
 little false pride. 
 
 "It is humiliating, Madame. But since you ask the 
 question and require a categorical answer, I will make 
 my confession. I have never been loved. But you will 
 observe, as an extenuating circumstance, that I am 
 young. I do not give up all hope." 
 
 "No — you need not," said Maria Consuelo in a low 
 voice, and again she moved the shade of the lamp. 
 
 Though Orsino was by no means fatuous, he must have 
 been blind if he had not seen by this time that Madame 
 d'Aranjuez was doing her best to make him speak as he 
 had formerly spoken to her, and to force him into a 
 declaration of love. He saw it, indeed, and wondered; 
 but although he felt her charm upon him, from time to 
 time, he resolved that nothing should induce him to relax 
 even so far as he had done already more than once dur- 
 ing the interview. She had placed him in a foolish posi- 
 tion once before, and he would not expose himself to 
 being made ridiculous again, in her eyes or his. He 
 could not discover what intention she had in trying to 
 lead him back to her, but he attributed it to her vanity. 
 She regretted, perhaps, having rebuked him so soon, 
 or perhaps she had imagined that he would have made 
 further and more determined efforts to see her. Possi- 
 bly, too, she really wished to ask a service of him, and 
 wished to assure herself that she could depend upon him 
 by previously extracting an avowal of his devotion. It 
 
DON ORSINO. 231 
 
 was clear ttat one of the two had mistaken the other's 
 character or mood, though it was impossible to say 
 which was the one deceived. 
 
 The silence which followed lasted some time, and 
 threatened to become awkward. Maria Consuelo could 
 not or would not speak and Orsino did not know what 
 to say. He thought of inquiring what the commission 
 might be with which, according to her note, she had 
 ■fished to entrust him. But an instant's reflection told 
 him that the qviestion would be tactless. If she had 
 invented the idea as an excuse for seeing him, to men- 
 tion it would be to force her hand, as card-players say, 
 and he had no intention of doing that. Even if she 
 really had something to ask of him, he had no right to 
 change the subject so suddenly. He bethought him of 
 a better question. 
 
 " You wrote me that you were going away, " he said 
 quietly. "But you will come back next winter, will 
 you not, Madame'/" 
 
 "I do not know," she answered, vaguely. Then she 
 started a little, as. though understanding his words. 
 " What am I saying ! " she exclaimed. " Of course I 
 shall qome back." 
 
 " Have you been drinking from the Trevi fountain by 
 moonlight, like those mad English?" he asked, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " It is not necessary. I know that I shall come back 
 — if I am alive." 
 
 " How you say that ! You are as strong as I " 
 
 " Stronger, perhaps. But then — who knows ! The weak 
 ones sometimes last the longest." 
 
 Orsino .thought she was growing very sentimental, 
 though as he looked at her he was struck again by the 
 look of suffering in her eyes. Whatever weakness she 
 felt was visible there, there was nothing in the full, firm 
 little hand, in the strong and easy pose of the head, in 
 the softly coloured ear half hidden by her hair, that could 
 suggest a coming danger to her splendid health. 
 
232 DON OESIKO. 
 
 " Let us take it for granted that you will come back to 
 us," said Orsino cheerfully. 
 
 "Very -well, we -will take it for granted. What then?" 
 
 The question was so sudden and direct that Orsino 
 fancied there ought to be an evident answer to it. 
 
 "What then?" he repeated, after a moment's hesita- 
 tion. "I suppose you will live in these same rooms 
 again, and with your permission, a certain Orsino Sara- 
 cinesca will visit you from time to time, and be rude^ 
 and be sent away into exile for his sins. And Madame 
 d'Aranjuez will go a great deal to Madame Del Ferice's 
 and to other ultra- White houses, which will prevent the 
 said Orsino from meeting her in society. She will also 
 be more beautiful than ever, and the daily papers will 
 describe a certain number of gowns which she will bring 
 with her from Paris, or Vienna, or London, or whatever 
 great capital is the chosen official residence of her great 
 dressmaker. And the world will not otherwise change 
 very materially in the course of eight months." 
 
 Orsino laughed lightly, not at his own speech, which 
 he had constructed rather clumsily under the spur of neces- 
 sity, but in the hope that she would laugh, too, and begin 
 to talk more carelessly. But Maria Consuelo was evi- 
 dently not inclined for anything but the most serious 
 view of the world, past, present and future. 
 
 "Yes," she answered gravely. "I daresay you are 
 right. One comes, one shows one's clothes, and one goes 
 " away again — and that is all. It would be very much the 
 same if one did not come. It is a great mistake to think 
 oneself necessary to any one. Only things are necessary 
 — food, money and something to talk about." 
 
 "You might add friends to the list," said Orsino, who 
 was afraid of being called brutal again if he did not make 
 some mild remonstrance to such a sweeping assertion. 
 
 "Friends are included under the head of 'something 
 to talk about, ' " answered Maria Consuelo. 
 
 "That is an encouraging view." 
 
 "Like all views one gets by experience." 
 
DON OESINO. 233 
 
 "You grow more and more bitter." 
 
 " Does the world grow sweeter as one grows older? " 
 
 "Neither you nor I have lived long enough to know," 
 answered Orsino. 
 
 "Facts make life long — not years." 
 
 " So long as they leave no sign of age, what does it 
 matter?" 
 
 "I do not care for that sort of flattery." 
 
 "Because it is not flattery at all. You know the truth 
 too well. I am not ingenious enough to flatter you, 
 Madame. Perfection is not flattered when it is called 
 perfect." 
 
 " It is at all events impossible to exaggerate better than 
 you can," answered Maria Consuelo, laughing at last at 
 the overwhelming compliment. "Where did you learn 
 that?" 
 
 "At your feet, Madame. The contemplation of great 
 masterpieces enlarges the intelligence and deepens the 
 power of expression." 
 
 "And I am a masterpiece — of what? Of art? Of 
 caprice? Of consistency?" 
 
 "Of nature," answered Orsino promptly. 
 
 Again Maria Consuelo laughed a little, at the mere 
 quickness of the answer. Orsino was delighted with 
 himself, for he fancied he was leading her rapidly away 
 from the dangerous ground upon which she had been try- 
 ing to, force him. But her next words showed him that 
 he had not yet succeeded. 
 
 " Who will make me laugh during all these months ! " 
 she exclaimed with a little sadness. 
 
 Orsino thought she was strangely obstinate, and won- 
 dered what she would say next. 
 
 "Dear me, Madame," he said, "if you are so kind as 
 to laugh at my poor wit, you will not have to -seek far 
 to find some one to amuse you better ! " 
 
 He knew how to put on an expression of perfect sim- 
 plicity when he pleased, and Maria Consuelo looked at 
 him, trying to be sure whether he were in earnest or not. 
 But his face baffled her. 
 
234 DON OBSINO. 
 
 "You are too modest," she said. 
 
 " Do you think it is a defect ? Shall I cultivate a 
 little more assurance of manner?" he asked, very inno- 
 cently. 
 
 " Not to-day. Your first attempt might lead you into 
 extremes." 
 
 "There is not the slightest fear of that, Madame," he 
 answered with some emphasis. 
 
 She coloured a little and her closed lips smiled in a 
 way he had often noticed before. He congratulated 
 himself upon these signs of approaching ill-temper, 
 which promised an escape from his difficulty. To take 
 leave of her suddenly was to abandon the field, and that 
 he would not do. She had determined to force him into 
 a confession of devotion, and he was equally determined 
 not to satisfy her. He had tried to lead her off her track 
 with frivolous talk and had failed. He would try and 
 irritate her instead, but without incurring the charge of 
 rudeness. Why she was making such an attack upon 
 him, was beyond his understanding, but he resented it, 
 and made up his mind neither to fly nor yield. If he 
 had been a hundredth part as cynical as he liked to fancy 
 himself, he would have acted very differently. But he 
 was young enough to have been wounded by his former 
 dismissal, though he hardly knew it, and to seek almost 
 instinctively to revenge his wrongs. He did not find it 
 easy. He would not have believed that such a woman as 
 Maria Consuelo could so far forget her pride as to go 
 begging for a declaration of love. 
 
 "I suppose you will take Gouache's portrait away with 
 you," he observed, changing the subject with a directness 
 which he fancied would increase her annoyance. 
 
 "What makes you think so?" she asked, rather drily. 
 
 "I thought it a natural question." 
 
 " I cannot imagine what I should do with it. I shall 
 leave it with him." 
 
 " You will let him send it to the Salon in Paris, of 
 course?" 
 
DON ORSINO. 235 
 
 "If he likes. You seem interested in the fate of the 
 picture." 
 
 " A little. I wondered why you did not have it here, 
 as it has been finished so long." 
 
 "Instead of that hideous mirror, you mean? There 
 would be less variety. I should always see myself in 
 the same dress." 
 
 " No — on the opposite wall. You might compare truth 
 with fiction in that way." 
 
 " To the advantage of Gouache's fiction, you would say. 
 You were more complimentary a little while ago." 
 
 " You imagine more rudeness than even I am capable 
 of inventing." 
 
 "That is saying much. Why did you change the sub- 
 ject just now? " 
 
 "Because I saw that you were annoyed at something. 
 Besides, we were talking about myself, if I remember 
 rightly." 
 
 " Have you never heard that a man should always talk 
 to a woman about himself or herself? " 
 
 " No. I never heard that. Shall we talk of you, then, 
 Madame?" 
 
 "Do you care to talk of me?" asked Maria Consuelo. 
 
 Another direct attack, Orsino thought. 
 
 "I would rather hear you talk of yourself," he an- 
 swered without the least hesitation. 
 
 "If I were to tell you my thoughts about myself at the 
 present moment, they would surprise you very much." 
 
 " Agreeably or disagreeably? " 
 
 " I do not know. Are you vain? " 
 
 "As a peacock ! " replied Orsino quickly. 
 
 "Ah — ^then what I am thinking would not interest 
 you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because if it is not flattering it would wound you, and 
 if it is flattering it would disappoint you — by falling 
 short of your ideal of yourself." 
 
 " Yet I confess that I would like to know what you 
 
236 DON ORSINO. 
 
 think of me, though I would much rather hear what you 
 think of yourself." 
 
 « On one condition, I will tell you." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " That you will give me your word to give me your own 
 opinion of me afterwards." 
 
 "The adjectives are ready, Madame, I give you my 
 word." 
 
 "You give it so easily ! How can I believe you ? " 
 
 " It is so easy to give in such a case, when one has 
 nothing disagreeable to say." 
 
 " Then you think me agreeable ? " 
 
 " Eminently ! " 
 
 " And charming ? " 
 
 "Perfectly!" 
 
 "And beautiful?" 
 
 " How can you doubt it ? " 
 
 " And in all other respects exactly like all the women 
 in society to whom you repeat the same commonplaces 
 every day of your life ? " 
 
 The feint had been dexterous and the thrust was sud- 
 den, straight and unexpected. 
 
 " Madame ! " exclaimed Orsino in the deprecatory tone 
 of a man taken by surprise. 
 
 " You see — ^you have nothing to say ! " She laughed a 
 little bitterly. 
 
 " You take too much for granted," he said, recovering 
 himself. "You suppose that because I agree with you 
 upon one point after another, I agree with you in the 
 conclusion. You do not even wait to hear my answer, 
 and you tell me that I am checkmated when I have a 
 dozen moves from which to choose. Besides, you have 
 directly infringed the conditions. You have fired before 
 the signal and an arbitration would go against you. You 
 have done fifty things contrary to agreement, and you 
 accuse me of being dumb in my own defence. There is 
 not much justice in that. You promise to tell me a cer- 
 tain secret on condition that I will tell you ajiother. 
 
DON OESINO. 237 
 
 Then, without saying a word on your own part you stone 
 me with quick questions and cry victory because I pro- 
 test. You begin before I hare had so much as " 
 
 " For heaven's sake stop ! " cried Maria Consuelo, 
 interrupting a speech which threatened to go on for 
 twenty minutes. " You talk of chess, duelling and stoning 
 to death, in one sentence — I am utterly confused ! You 
 upset all my ideas ! " 
 
 " Considering how you have disturbed mine, it is a fair 
 revenge. And since we both admit that we have dis- 
 turbed that balance upon which alone depends all possi- 
 bility of conversation, I think that I can do nothing more 
 graceful — pardon me, nothing less ungraceful — than wish 
 you a pleasant journey, which I do with all my heart, 
 Madame." 
 
 Thereupon Orsino rose and took his hat. 
 
 "Sit down. Do not go yet," said Maria Consuelo, 
 growing a shade paler, and speaking with an evident 
 effort. 
 
 " Ah — ^true ! " exclaimed Orsino. " We were forget- 
 ting the little commission you spoke of in your note. I 
 am entirely at your service." 
 
 Maria Consuelo looked at him quickly and her lips 
 trembled. 
 
 " Never mind that," she said unsteadily. " I will not 
 trouble you. But I do not want you to go away as — as 
 you were going. I feel as though we had been quarrel- 
 ling. Perhaps we have. But let us say we are good 
 friends — if we only say it." 
 
 Orsino was touched and disturbed. Her face was very 
 white and her hand trembled visibly as she held it out. 
 He took it in his own without hesitation. 
 
 " If you care for my friendship, you shall have no bet- 
 ter friend in the world than I," he said, simply and nat- 
 urally. 
 
 "Thank you— good-bye. I shall leave to-morrow." 
 
 The words were almost broken, as though she were 
 losing control of her voice. As he closed the door behind 
 
238 DON OBsmo. 
 
 him, the sound of a wild and passionate sob came to him 
 through the panel. He stood still, listening and hesitat- 
 ing. The truth wjiich would have long been clear to an 
 older or a vainer man, flashed upon him suddenly. She 
 loved him very much, and he no longer cared for her. 
 That was the reason why she had behaved so strangely, 
 throwing her pride and dignity to the winds in her .des- 
 perate attempt to get from him a single kind and affec- 
 tionate word — from him, who had poured into her ear so 
 many words of love but two months earlier, and from 
 whom to draw a bare admission of'friendship to-day she 
 had almost shed tears. 
 
 To go back into the room would be madness ; since he 
 did not love her, it would almost be an insult. He bent 
 his head and walked slowly down the corridor. He had 
 not gone far, when he was confronted by a small dark 
 figure that stopped the way. He recognised Maria Con- 
 suelo's elderly maid. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Signore Principe," said the little 
 black-eyed woman. " You will allow me to say a few 
 words ? I thank you, Eccellenza. It is about my Sig- 
 nora, in there, of whom I have charge." 
 
 " Of whom you have charge ? " repeated Orsino, not 
 understanding her. 
 
 " Yes — precisely. Of course, I am only her maid. You 
 understand that. But I have charge of her though she 
 does not know it. The poor Signora has had terrible 
 trouble during the last few years, and at times — ^you 
 understand ? She is a little — yes — here." She tapped 
 her forehead. " She is better now. .But in my position 
 I sometimes think it wiser to warn some friend of hers 
 — in strict confidence. It sometimes saves some little 
 unnecessary complication, and I was ordered to do so 
 by the doctors we last consulted in Paris. You will for- 
 give me, Eccellenza, I am sure." 
 
 Orsino stared at the woman for some seconds in blank 
 astonishment. She smiled in a placid, self-confident 
 way. 
 
DON ORSINO. 239 
 
 " You mean that Madame d'Aranjuez is — mentally de- 
 ranged, and that you are her keeper ? It is a little hard 
 to believe, I confess." 
 
 " Would you like to see my certificates, Signor Prin- 
 cipe ? Or the written directions of the doctors ? I am 
 sure you are discreet." 
 
 '* I have no right to see anything of the kind," answered 
 Orsino coldly. "Of course, if you are acting under 
 instructions it is no concern of mine." 
 
 He would have gone forward, but she suddenly pro- 
 duced a small bit of note-paper, neatly folded, and offered 
 it to him. 
 
 "I thought you might like to know where we are 
 until we return," she said, continuing to speak in a very 
 low voice. " It is the address." 
 
 Orsino made an impatient gesture. He was on the 
 point of refusing the information which he had not taken 
 the trouble to ask of Maria Consuelo herself. But he 
 changed his mind and felt in his pocket for something 
 to give the woman. It seemed the easiest and simplest 
 way of getting rid of her. The only note he had, chanced 
 to be one of greater value than necessary. 
 
 " A thoiisand thanks, Eccellenza ! " whispered the maid, 
 overcome by what she took for an intentional piece of 
 generosity. 
 
 Orsino left the hotel as quickly as he could. 
 
 "For improbable situations, commend me to the 
 nineteenth century and the society in which we live ! " 
 he said to himself as he emerged into the street. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was long before Orsino saw Maria Consuelo again, 
 but the circumstances of his last meeting with her con- 
 stantly recurred to his mind during the following months. 
 It is one of the chief characteristics of Rome that it seems 
 
240 DON ORSINO. 
 
 to be one of the most central cities in Europe during the 
 winter, whereas in the summer months it appears to be 
 immensely remote from the rest of the civilised world. 
 From having been the prey of the inexpressible foreigner 
 in his shooting season, it suddenly becomes, and remains 
 during about five months, the happy hunting ground of 
 the silent flea, the buzzing fly and the insinuating mo- 
 squito. The streets are, indeed, still full of people, and 
 long lines of carriages may be seen towards sunset in the 
 Villa Borghesa and in the narrow Corso. Eome and the 
 Romans are not easily parted as London and London so- 
 ciety, for instance. May comes — the queen of the months 
 in the south. June follows. Southern blood rejoices in 
 the first strong sunshine. July trudges in at the gates, 
 sweating under the cloudless sky, heavy, slow of foot, 
 oppressed by the breath of the coming dog-star. Still 
 the nights are cool. Still, towards sunset, the refreshing 
 breeze sweeps up from the sea and fills the streets. Then 
 behind closely fastened blinds, the glass windows are 
 opened and the weary hand drops the fan at last. Then 
 men and women array themselves in the garments of 
 civilisation and sally forth, in carriages, on foot, and in 
 trams, according to the degrees of social importance which 
 provide that in old countries the middle term shall be 
 made to suffer for the priceless treasure of a respecta- 
 bility which is a little higher than the tram and finan- 
 cially not quite equal to the cab. Then, at that inagic 
 touch of the west wind the house-fly retires to his own 
 peculiar Inferno, wherever that may be, the mosquito and 
 the gnat pause in their work of darkness and blood to con- 
 cert fresh and more bloodthirsty deeds, and even the joy- 
 ous and wicked flea tires of the war dance and lays down 
 his weary head to snatch a hard-earned nap. July drags 
 on, and terrible August treads the burning streets bleach- 
 ing the very dust upon the pavement, scourging the broad 
 campagna with fiery lashes of heat. Then the white-hot 
 sky reddens in the evening when it cools, as the white iron 
 does when it is taken from the forge. Then at last, all 
 
DON OESINO. '241 
 
 those who can escape from the condemned city flee for 
 their lives to the hills, while those who must face the 
 torment of the sun and the poison of the air turn pale iu 
 their sufferings, feebly curse their fate and then grow list- 
 less, weak and irresponsible as over-driven galley slaves, 
 indifferent to everything, work, rest, blows, food, sleep 
 and the hope of release. The sky darkens suddenly. 
 There is a sort of horror in the stifling air. People do 
 not talk much, and if they do are apt to quarrel and 
 sometimes to kill one another without warning. The 
 plash of the fountains has a dull sound like the pouring 
 out of molten lead. The horses' hoofs strike visible 
 sparks out of the grey stones in broad daylight. Many 
 houses are shut, and one fancies that there must be a dead 
 man in each whom no one will bury. A few great drops 
 of rain make ink-stains on the pavement at noon, and 
 there is an exasperating, half-sulphurous smell abroad. 
 Late in the afternoon they fall again. An evil wind comes 
 in hot blasts from all quarters at once — then a low roar 
 like an earthquake and presently a crash that jars upon 
 the over-wrought nerves — great and plashing drops again, 
 a sharp short flash — then crash upon crash, deluge upon 
 deluge, and the worst is over. Summer has received its 
 first mortal wound. But its death is more fatal than its 
 life. The noontide heat is fierce and drinks up the moist- 
 ure of the rain and the fetid dust with it. The fever-wraith 
 rises in the damp, cool night, far out in the campagna, and 
 steals up to the walls of the city, and over them and under 
 them and into the houses. If there are any yet left in 
 Eome who can by any possibility take themselves out of 
 it, they are not long in going. Till that moment, there 
 has been only suffering to be borne ; now, there is danger 
 of something worse. Now, indeed, the city becomes a 
 desert inhabited by white-faced ghosts. Now, if it be a 
 year of cholera, the dead carts rattle through the streets 
 all night on their way to the gate of Saint Lawrence, and 
 the workmen count their numbers when they meet at 
 dawn. But the bad days are not many, if only there be 
 
 B 
 
242 DON OESINO. 
 
 rain enough, for a little is worse than none. The nights 
 lengthen and the September gales sweep away the poi- 
 son-mists with kindly strength. Body and soul revive, 
 as the ripe grapes appear in their vine-covered baskets at 
 the street corners. Eieh October is coming, the month 
 in which the small citizens of Rome take their wives and 
 the children to the near towns, to Marino, to Froscati, to 
 Albano and Aricia, to eat late fruits and drink new must, 
 with songs and laughter, and small miseries and great 
 delights such as are remembered a whole year. The first 
 clear breeze out of the north shakes down the dying leaves 
 and brightens the blue air. The brown campagna turns 
 green again, and the heart of the poor lame cab-horse is 
 lifted up. The huge porter of the palace lays aside his 
 linen coat and his pipe, and opens wide the great gates ; 
 for the masters are coming back, from their castles and 
 country places, from the sea and from the mountains, 
 from north and south, from the magic shore of Sorrento, 
 and from distant French bathing places, some with brides 
 or husbands, some with rosy Roman babies making their 
 first trumphal entrance into Rome — and some, again, re- 
 turning companionless to the home they had left in com- 
 panionship. The great and complicated machinery of 
 social life is set in order and repaired for the winter; 
 the lost or damaged pieces in the engine are carefully 
 replaced with new ones which will do as well or better, 
 the joints and bearings are lubricated, the whistle of the 
 first invitation is heard, there is some pufBng and a little 
 creaking at first, and then the big wheels .begin to go 
 slowly round, solemnly and regularly as ever, while all 
 the little wheels run as fast as they can and set fire to 
 their axles in the attempt to keep up the speed, and are 
 finally jammed and caught up and smashed, as little wheels 
 are sure to be when they try to act like big ones. But 
 unless something happens to one of the very biggest the 
 machine does not stop until the end of the season, when 
 it is taken to pieces again for repairs. 
 
 That is the brief history of a Roman year, of which 
 
DON OESINO. 243 
 
 the main points are very much like those of its prede- 
 cessor and successor. The framework is the same, but 
 the decorations change, slowly, surely and not, perhaps, 
 advantageously, as the younger generation crowds into 
 the place of the older— as young acquaintances take the 
 place of old friends, as faces strange to us hide faces we 
 have loved. 
 
 Orsino Saracinesca, in his new character as a con- 
 tractor and a man of business, knew that he must either 
 spend the greater part of the summer in town, or leave 
 his affairs in the hands of Andrea Contini. The latter 
 course was repugnant to him, partly because he still felt 
 a beginner's interest in his first success, and partly be- 
 cause he had a shrewd suspicion that Contini, if left to 
 himself in the hot weather, might be tempted to devote 
 more time to music than to architecture. The business, 
 too, was now on a much larger scale than before, though 
 Orsino had taken his mother's advice in not at once going 
 so far as he might have gone. It needed all his own 
 restless energy, all Contini's practical talents, and per- 
 haps more of Del Ferice's influence than either of them 
 suspected, to keep it going on the road to success. 
 
 In July Orsino's people made ready to go up to Sara- 
 cinesca. The old prince, to every one's surprise, declared 
 his intention of going to England, and roughly refused to 
 be accompanied by any one of the family. He wanted 
 to find out some old friends, he said, and desired the sat- 
 isfaction of spending a couple of months in peace, which 
 was quite impossible at home, owing to Giovanni's out- 
 rageous temper and Orsino's craze for business. He 
 thereupon embraced them all affectionately, indulged in 
 a hearty laugh and departed in a special carriage with 
 his own servants. 
 
 Giovanni objected to Orsino's staying in Rome during 
 the great heat. Though Orsino had not as yet entered 
 into any explanation with his father, but the latter 
 imderstood well enough that the business had turned out 
 better than had been expected and began to feel an inter- 
 
244 DON OESINO. 
 
 est in its further success, for his son's sake. He saw the 
 boy developing into a man by a process which he would 
 naturally have supposed to be the worst possible one, 
 judging from his own point of view. But he could not 
 find fault with the result. There was no disputing the 
 mental superiority of the Orsino of July over the Orsino 
 of the preceding January. Whatever the sensation 
 which Giovanni experienced as he contemplated the 
 growing change, it was not one of anxiety nor of disap- 
 pointment. But he had a Roman's well-founded preju- 
 dice against spending August and September in town. 
 His objections gave rise to some discussion, iii which 
 Corona joined. 
 
 Orsino enlarged upon the necessity of attending in per- 
 son to the execution of his contracts. Giovanni sug- 
 gested that he should find some trustworthy person to 
 take his place. Corona was in favour of a compromise. 
 It would be easy, she said, for Orsino to spend two or 
 three days of every week in Rome and the remainder in 
 the country with his father and mother. They were all 
 three quite right according to their own views, and they 
 all three knew it. Moreover they were all three very 
 obstinate people. The consequence was that Orsino, who 
 was in possession, so to say, since the other two were 
 trying to make him change his mind, got the best of the 
 argument, and won his first pitched battle. Not that 
 there was any apparent hostility, or that any of the three 
 spoke hotly or loudly. They were none of them like old 
 Saracinesca, whose feats of argumentation were vehement, 
 eccentric and fiery as his own nature. They talked with 
 apparent calm through a long summer's afternoon, and 
 the vanquished retired with a fairly good grace, leaving 
 Orsino master of the field. But on that occasion Gio- 
 vanni Saracinesca first formed the opinion that his son 
 was a match for him, and that it would be wise in future 
 to ascertain the chances of success before incurring the 
 risk of a humiliating defeat. 
 
 Giovanni and his wife went out together and talked 
 
DON OESINO. 245 
 
 over the matter as their carriage swept round the great 
 avenues of Villa Borghesa. 
 
 " There is no question of the fact that Orsino is grow- 
 ing up — is grown up already," said Sant' Ilario, glancing 
 at Corona's calm, dark face. 
 
 She smiled with a certain pride, as she heard the 
 words. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " he is a man. It is a mistake 
 to treat him as a boy any longer." 
 
 " Do you think it is this sudden interest in business 
 that has changed him so ? " 
 
 " Of course — what else ? " 
 
 "Madame d'Aranjuez, for instance," Giovanni sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " I do not believe she ever had the least influence over 
 him. The flirtation seems to have died a natural death. 
 I confess, I hoped it might end in that way, and I am 
 glad if it has. And I am very glad that Orsino is suc- 
 ceeding so well. Do you know, dear ? I am glad, because 
 you did not believe it possible that he should." 
 
 " No, I did not. And now that I begin to understand 
 it, he does not like to talk to me about his affairs. I 
 suppose that is only natural. Tell me — has he really 
 made money ? Or have you been giving him money to 
 lose, in order that he may buy experience." 
 
 " He has succeeded alone," said Corona proudly. " I 
 would give him whatever he needed, but he needs noth- 
 ing. He is immensely clever and immensely energetic. 
 How could he fail ? " 
 
 " You seem to admire our firstborn, my dear," observed 
 Giovanni with a smile. 
 
 " To tell the truth, I do. I have no doubt that he 
 does all sorts of things which he ought not to do, and of 
 which I know nothing. You did the same at his age, 
 and I shall be quite satisfied if he turns out like you. 
 I would not like to have a lady-like son with white hands 
 and delicate sensibilities, and hypocritical affectations of 
 exaggerated morality. I think I- should be capable of 
 
246 DON OKSINO. 
 
 trying to make such a boy bad, if it only made Mm 
 manly — though I daresay that would be very wrong." 
 
 "No doubt," said Griovanni. "But we shall not be 
 placed in any such position by Orsino, my dear. Yoa re- 
 member that little affair last year, in England ? It was 
 very nearly a scandal. But then — ^the English are easily 
 led into temptation and very easily scandalised after- 
 wards. Orsino will not err in the direction of hypocrit- 
 ical morality. But that is not the question. I wish to 
 kuow, from you since he does not confide in me, how far 
 he is really succeeding." 
 
 Corona gave her husband a remarkably clear statement 
 of Orsino's affairs, without exaggeration so far as the facts 
 were concerned, but not without highly favourable com- 
 ment. She did not attempt to conceal her triumph, now 
 that success had been in a measure attained, and she did 
 not hesitate to tell Giovanni that he ought to have encour- 
 aged and supported the boy from the first. 
 
 Giovanni listened with very great interest, and bore 
 her affectionate reproaches with equanimity. He felt in 
 his heart that he had done right, and he somehow still 
 believed that things were not in reality all that they 
 seemed to be. There was something in Orsino's immediate 
 success against odds apparently heavy, which disturbed 
 his judgment. He had not, it was true, any personal 
 experience of the building speculations in the city, nor of 
 financial transactions in general, as at present understood, 
 and he had recently heard of cases in which individuals 
 had succeeded beyond their own wildest expectations. 
 There was, perhaps, no reason why Orsino should not do 
 as well as other people, or even better, in spite of his 
 extreme youth. Andrea Contini was probably a man of 
 superior talent, well able to have directed the whole affair 
 alone, if other circumstances had been favourable to him, 
 and there was on the whole nothing to prove that the two 
 young men had received more than their fair share of 
 assistance or accommodation from the bank. But Giovanni 
 knew well enough that Del Ferice was the most influential 
 
DON OESINO. 247 
 
 personage in the bank in question, and the mere suggestion 
 of his name lent to the whole affair a suspicious quality 
 which disturbed Orsino's father. In spite of all reasonable 
 reflexions there was an air of unnatural good fortune in 
 the case which he did not like, and he had enough experi- 
 ence of Del Ferice's tortuous character to distrust his 
 intentions. He would have preferred to see his son lose 
 money through XJgo rather than that Orsino should owe 
 the latter the smallest thanks. The fact that he had not 
 spoken with the man for oyer twenty years did not increase 
 the confidence he felt in him. In that time Del Ferice 
 had developed into a very important personage, having 
 much greater power to do harm than he had possessed in 
 former days, and it was not to be supposed that he had 
 forgotten old wounds or given up all hope of avenging 
 them. Del Perice was not very subject to that sort of 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 When Corona had finished speaking, Giovanni was 
 silent for a few moments. 
 
 " Is it not splendid ? " Corona asked enthusiastically. 
 " Why do you not say anything ? One would think 
 that you were not pleased." 
 
 " On the contrary, as far as Orsino is concerned, I am 
 delighted. But I do not trust Del Ferice." 
 
 " Del Ferice is far too clever a man to ruin Orsino," 
 answered Corona. 
 
 " Exactly. That is the trouble. That is what makes 
 me feel that though Orsino has worked hard and shown 
 extraordinary intelligence — and deserves credit for that 
 — yet he would not have succeeded in the same way if he 
 had dealt with any other bank. Del Ferice has helped 
 him. Possibly Orsino knows that, as well as we do, but 
 he certainly does not know what part Del Ferice played 
 in our lives, Corona. If he did, he would not accept his 
 help." 
 
 In her turn Corona was silent and a look of disappoint- 
 ment came into her face. She remembered a certain 
 afternoon in the mountains when she had entreated 
 
248 DON ORSINO. 
 
 Griovanni to let Del Ferice escape, and Griovanni had 
 yielded reluctantly and bad given the fugitive a guide to 
 take him to the frontier. She wondered whether the 
 generous impulse of that day was to bear evil fruit at last. 
 
 " Orsino knows nothing about it at all," she said at last. 
 "We kept the secret of Del Ferice's escape very care- 
 fully — for there were good reasons to be careful in those 
 days. Orsino only knows that you once fought a duel 
 with the man and wounded him." 
 
 " I think it is time that he knew more." 
 
 " Of what use can it be to tell him those old stories? " 
 asked Corona. " And after all, I do not believe that Del 
 Ferice has done so much. If you could have followed 
 Orsino's work, day by day and week by week, as I have, 
 you would see how much is really due to his energy. Any 
 other banker would have done as much as he. Besides, 
 it is in Del Ferice's own interest " 
 
 "That is the trouble," interrupted Giovanni. "It is 
 bad enough that he should help Orsino. It is much worse 
 that he should help him in order to make use of him. If, 
 as you say, any other bank would do as much, then let 
 him go to another bank. If he owes Del Ferice money 
 at the present moment, we will pay it for him." 
 
 "You forget that he has bought the buildings he is 
 now finishing, from Del Ferice, on a mortgage." 
 
 Giovanni laughed a little. 
 
 "How you have learned to talk about mortgages and 
 deeds and all sorts of business ! " he exclaimed. " But 
 what you say is not an objection. We can pay off these 
 mortgages, I suppose, and take the risk ourselves.'' 
 
 " Of course we could do that," Corona answered, thought- 
 fully. "But I really think you exaggerate the whole 
 aHair. For the time being, Del Ferice is not a man,, but 
 a banker. His personal character and former doings do 
 not enter into the matter." 
 
 "I think they do," said Giovanni, still unconvinced. 
 
 " At all events, do not make trouble now, dear," said 
 Corona in earnest tones; " Let the present contract he 
 
DON OESINO. 249 
 
 executed and finished, and then speak to Orsino before he 
 makes another. Whatever Del Ferice may have done, 
 you can see for yourself that Orsino is developing in a 
 way we had not expected, and is becoming a serious, ener- 
 getic man. Do not step in now, and check the growth of 
 what is good. You will regret it as much as I shall. 
 When he has finished these buildings he will have enough 
 experience to make a new departure." 
 
 " I hate the idea of receiving a favour from Del Ferice, 
 or of laying him under an obligation. I think I will go 
 to him myself." 
 
 " To Del, Ferice? " Corona started and looked round 
 at Giovanni as she sat. She had a sudden vision of new 
 trouble. 
 
 "Yes. Why not ? I -sfill go to him and tell him that 
 I would rather wind up my son's business with him, as 
 our former relations were not of a nature to make trans- 
 actions of mutual profit either fitting or even permissible 
 between any of our family and Ugo Del Ferice." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Giovanni, do not do that." 
 
 " And why not ? " He was surprised at her evident 
 distress. 
 
 "For my sake, then — do not quarrel with Del Ferice — 
 it was different" then, in the old days. I could not bear it 
 now " she stopped, and her lower lip trembled a little. 
 
 " Do you love me better than you did then. Corona ? " 
 
 "So much better — I cannot tell you." 
 
 She touched his hand with hers and her dark eyes were 
 a little veiled as they met his. Both were silent for a 
 moment. 
 
 " I have no intention of quarrelling with Del Ferice, 
 dear," said Giovanni, gently. 
 
 His face had grown a shade paler as she spoke. The 
 power of her hand and voice to move him, had not dimin- 
 ished in all the years of peaceful happiness that had passed 
 so quickly. 
 
 " I do not mean any such thing," he said again. " But 
 I mean this. I will not have it said that Del Ferice has 
 
250 DON OKSINO. 
 
 made a fortune for Orsino, nor that Orsino has helped Del 
 Ferice's interests. I see no way but to interfere myself. 
 I can do it without the suspicion of a quarrel." 
 
 " It will be a great mistake, Giovanni. Wait till there 
 is a new contract." 
 
 "I will think of it, before doing anything definite." 
 
 Corona well knew that she should get no greater con- 
 cession th§,n this. The point of honour had been touched 
 in Giovanni's sensibilities and his character was stubborn 
 and determined where his old prejudices were concerned. 
 She loved him very dearly, and this very obstinacy of Ms 
 pleased her. But she fancied that trouble of. some sort 
 was imminent. She understood her son's nature, too, and 
 dreaded lest he should be forced into opposing his father. 
 
 It struck her that she might Kerself act as intermediary. 
 She could certainly obtain concessions from Orsino which 
 Giovanni could not hope to extract by force or stratagem. 
 But the wisdom of her own proposal in the matter seemed 
 unassailable. The business now in hand should be allowed 
 to run its natural course before anything was done to 
 break off the relations between Orsino and Del Ferice. 
 
 In the evening she found an opportunity of speaking 
 with Otsino in private. She repeated to him the details 
 of her conversation with Giovanni during "the drive in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 " My dear mother," answered Orsino, " I do not trust 
 Del Ferice any more than you and my father trust him. 
 You talk of things which he did years ago, but you do 
 not tell me what those things were. So far as I under- 
 stand, it all happened before you were married. My father 
 and he quarrelled about something, and I suppose there 
 was a lady concerned in the matter. Unless you were 
 the lady in question, and unless what he did was in the/ 
 nature of an insult to you, I cannot see how the matter 
 concerns me. They fought and it ended there, as affairs 
 of honour do. If it touched you, then tell me so, and I 
 will break with Del Ferice to-morrow morning." 
 
 Corona was silent, for Orsino's speech was very plain, 
 
DON OESINO. 251 
 
 and if she answered it all, the answer must be the truth. 
 There could be no escape from that. And the truth would 
 be very hard to tell. At that time she had been still the 
 wife of old Astrardente, and Del Ferice's offence had- been 
 that he had purposely concealed himself in the conserva- 
 tory of the Frangipan's palace in order to overhear what 
 Giovanni Saracinesca was about to say to another man's 
 wife. The fact that on that memorable night she had" 
 bravely resisted a- very great temptation did not affect 
 the difficulty of the present case in any way. She asked 
 herself rather ■^hether Del Ferice's eavesdropping would 
 appear to Orsino to be in the nature of an insult to her, 
 to use his own words, and she had no doubt but that it 
 would seem so. At the same time she -would find hard to 
 explain to her son why Del Ferice suspected that- there 
 was to be anything said to her worth overhearing, seeing 
 that she bore at that time the name of. another man then, 
 still living. How could Orsino understand all that had 
 gone before? Even now, though she knew that she had 
 acted well, she humbly believed that she might have done 
 much better. How would her son judge her?' She was 
 silent, waiting for him to speak again. 
 
 "That would be the only conceivable reason for my 
 breaking with Del Ferice," said Orsino. " We only have 
 business relations, and I do not go to his house; I went 
 once. I saw no reason for telling you so at the time, and 
 I have not been there again. It was at the beginning of 
 the whole affair. Outside of the bank, we are the merest 
 acquaintances. But J repeat what I said. If he ever did 
 anything which makes it dishonourable for me to accept 
 even ordinary business services from him, let me know 
 it. I have some right to hear the truth." 
 
 Corona hesitated, and laid the case again_ before her 
 own conscience, and tried to imagine herself in her son's 
 position. It was hard to reach a conclusion. There was 
 no doubt but that when she had learned the truth, long 
 after the event, she had felt that she had been insulted 
 and justly avenged. If she said nothing now, Orsino 
 
252 DON OKsmo. 
 
 ■would suspect something and would assuredly go to his 
 father, from whom he would get a view of the case not 
 conspicuous for its moderation. And Giovanni would 
 undoubtedly tell his son the details of what had followed, 
 how Del Feriee had attempted to hinder the marriage 
 when it was at last possible, and all the rest of the story. 
 At the same time, she felt that so far as her personal 
 sensibilities, were concerned, she had not the least objec- 
 tion to the continuance of a mere business relation between 
 Orsino and Del Feriee. She was more forgiving than 
 Giovanni. 
 
 "I will tell you this much, my dear boy," she said, at 
 last. "That old quarrel did concern me and no one else. 
 Your father feels more strongly about it than I do, because 
 he fought for me and not for himself. You trust me, 
 Orsino. You know that I would rather see you dead than 
 doing anything dishonourable. Very well. Do not ask 
 any more questions, and do not go to your father about 
 it. Del Feriee has only advanced you money, in a busi- 
 ness way, on good security and at a high interest. So far 
 as I can judge of the point of honour involved, what hap- 
 pened long ago need not prevent your doing what you are 
 doing now. Possibly, when you have finished the present 
 contract, you may think it wiser to apply to some other 
 bank, or to work on your own account with my money." 
 
 Corona believed that she had found the best way out of 
 the dificulty, and Orsino seemed satisfied, for he nodded 
 thoughtfully and said nothing. The day had been filled 
 with argument and discussion about his determination to 
 stay in town, and he was weary of the perpetual question 
 and answer. He knew his mother well, and was willing 
 to take her advice for the present. She, on her part, told 
 Giovanni what she had done, and he consented to consider 
 the matter a little longer before interfering. He disliked 
 even the idea of a business relation extremely, but he 
 feared that there was more behind, the appearances of 
 commercial fairness than either he or Orsino himself could 
 understand. The better Orsino succeeded, the less his 
 
DON OESINO. 253 
 
 father was pleased, and his suspicions were not unfounded. 
 He knew from San Giacinto that success was becoming 
 uncommon, and he knew that all Orsino's industry and 
 energy could not have suflced to counterbalance his inex- 
 perience. Andrea Contini, too, had been recommended 
 by Del Ferice, and was presumably Del Ferice's man. 
 
 On the following day Giovanni and Corona with the 
 three younger boys went up to Saracinesca leaving Orsino 
 alone in the great palace, to his own considerable satis- 
 faction. He was well pleased with himself and especially 
 at having carried his point. At his age, and with his 
 constitution, the heat was a matter of supreme indiffer- 
 ence to him, and he looked forward with delight to a 
 summer of uninterrupted work in the not uncongenial 
 society of Andrea Contini. As for the work itself, it was 
 beginning to have a sort of fascination for him as he 
 understood it better. The love of building, the passion 
 for stone and brick and mortar, is inherent in some 
 natures, and is capable of growing into a mania little 
 short of actual insanity. Orsino began to ask himself 
 seriously whether it were too late to study architecture 
 as a profession and in the meanwhile he learned more of 
 it in practice from Contini than he could have acquired 
 in twice the time at any polytechnic school in Europe. 
 
 He liked Contini himself more and more as the days 
 went by. Hitherto he had been much inclined to judge 
 his own countrymen from his own class. He was begin- 
 ning to see that he had understood little or nothing of 
 the real Italian nature when uninfluenced by foreign 
 blood. The study interested and pleased him. Only one 
 unpleasant memory occasionally disturbed his peace of 
 mind. When he thought of his last meeting with Maria 
 Consuelo he hated himself for the part he had played, 
 though he was quite unable to account logically, upon his 
 assumed principles, for the severity of" his self-condem- 
 nation. 
 
254 DON OKSINO. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Orsino necessarily led a monotonous life, though his 
 occupation was an absorbing one. Very early in the 
 morning he was with Contini where the building was 
 going on. He then passed the hot hours of the day in the 
 oflce, which, as before, had been established in one of the 
 unfinished houses. Towards evening, he went down into 
 the city to his home, refreshed himself after his long day's 
 work, and then walked or drove until half past eight, 
 when he went to dinner in the garden of a great restau- 
 rant in the Corso. Here he met a few acquaintances who, 
 like himself, had reasons for staying in town after their 
 families had left. He always sat at the same small table, 
 at which there was barely room for two persons, for he 
 preferred to be alone, and he rarely asked a passing friend 
 to sit down with him. 
 
 On a certain hot evening in the beginning of August he 
 had just taken his seat, and was trying to make up his 
 mind whether he were hungry enough to eat anything or 
 whether it would not be less trouble to drink a glass of 
 iced coffee and go away, when he was aware of a lank 
 shadow cast across the white cloth by the glaring electric 
 light. He looked up and saw Spicca standing there, 
 apparently uncertain where to sit down for the place was 
 fuller than usual. He liked the melancholy old man 
 and spoke to him, offering to share his table. 
 
 Spicca hesitated a moment and then accepted the invi- 
 tation. He deposited his hat upon a chair beside him 
 and leaned back, evidently exhausted either in mind or 
 body, if not in both. 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you, my dear Orsino," he 
 said. " There is an abominable crowd here, which means 
 an unusual number of people to avoid — just as many as 
 I know, in fact, excepting yourself." 
 
 " I am glad you do not wish to avoid me, too, " observed 
 Orsino, by way of saying something. 
 
DON OKSINO. 256 
 
 " You are a less evil — so 1 choose you in preference to 
 the greater," Spicca answered. But there was a not un- 
 kindly look in his sunken eyes as he spoke. 
 
 He tipped the great flask of Chianti that hung in its 
 swinging plated cradle in the middle of the table, and 
 filled two glasses. 
 
 " Since all that is good has been abolished, let us drink 
 to the least of evils," he said, "in other words, to each 
 other." 
 
 "To the absence of friends," answered Orsino, touch- 
 ing the wine with his lips. 
 
 Spicca emptied his glass slowly and then looked at 
 him. 
 
 "I like that toast," he said. "To the absence of 
 friends. I daresay you have heard of Adam and Eve in 
 the garden of Eden. Do they still teach the dear old tale 
 in these modern schools? No. But you have heard it 
 — ^very well. You will remember that if they had not 
 allowed the serpent to scrape acquaintance with them, on 
 pretence of a friendly interest in their intellectual devel- 
 opment, Adam and Eve would still be inventing names 
 for the angelic little wild beasts who were too well-be- 
 haved to eat them. They would still be in paradise. 
 Moreover Orsino Saracinesca and John Nepomucene 
 Spicca would not be in daily danger of poisoning in this 
 vile cookshop. Summary ejection from Eden was the 
 first consequence of friendship, and its results are similar 
 to this day. What nauseous mess are we to swallow to- 
 night? Have you looked at the card? " 
 
 Orsino laughed a little. He foresaw that Spicca would 
 not be dull company on this particular evening. Some- 
 thing unusually disagreeable had probably happened to 
 him during the day. After long and melancholy hesita- 
 tion he ordered something which he believed he could eat, 
 and Orsino followed his example. 
 
 "Are all your people out of town?" Spicca asked, 
 after a pause. 
 " Yes. I am alone. " 
 
256 DON OKsnsro. 
 
 ''And what in the world is the attraction here? "Why 
 do you stay? I do not wish to be indiscreet, and I was 
 never afflicted with curiosity. But cases of mental alien- 
 ation grow more common every day, and as an old friend 
 of your father's I cannot overlook symptoms of madness 
 in you. A really sane person avoids Eome in August." 
 
 "It strikes me that I might say the same to you," an- 
 swered Orsino. " I am kept here by business. You have 
 not even that excilse." 
 
 "How do you know?" asked Spioca, sharply. "Busi- 
 ness has two main elements — credit and debit. The one 
 means the absence of the other. I leave it to your lively 
 intelligence to decide which of the two means Eome in 
 August, and which means Trouville or St. Moritz." 
 
 "I had not thought of it in that light." 
 
 "No? I daresay not. I constantly think of it." 
 
 "There are other places, nearer than St. Moritz," sug- 
 gested Orsino. "Why not go to Sorrento?" 
 
 " There was such a place once — but my friends have 
 found it out. Nevertheless, I might go there. It is 
 better to suifer friendship in the spirit than fever in the 
 body. But I have a reason for staying here just at present 
 — a very good one." 
 
 "Without indiscretion ?" 
 
 " No, certainly not without considerable indiscretion. 
 Take some more wine. When intoxication is bliss it is 
 folly to be sober, as the proverb says. I cannot get tipsy, 
 but you may, and that will be almost as amusing. The 
 main object of drinking wine is that one person should 
 make confidences for the other to laugh at — the one en- 
 joys it quite as much as the other." 
 
 "I would rather be the other," said Orsino with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "In all cases in life it is better to be the other person," 
 observed Spicca, thoughtfully, though the remark lacked 
 precision. 
 
 "You mean the patient and not the agent, I suppose?" 
 
 " No. I mean the spectator. The spectator is a well 
 
DON OBSINO. 257 
 
 fed, indifferent personage who laughs at the play and 
 goes home to supper — perdition upon him and his kind ! 
 He is the abomination of desolation in a front stall, look- 
 ing on while better men cut one another's throats. He 
 is a fat man with a pink complexion and small eyes, and 
 when he has watched other people's troubles long enough, 
 he retires to his comfortable vault in the family chapel in 
 the Campo Varano, which is decorated with coloured tiles, 
 embellished with a modern altar piece and adorned with 
 a bust of himself by a good sculptor. Even in death, he 
 is still the spectator, grinning through the window of his 
 sanctuary at the rows of nameless graves outside. He is 
 happy and self-satisfied still — even in marble. It is 
 worth living to be such a man." 
 
 "It is not an exciting life," remarked Orsino. 
 
 " No. That is the beauty of it. Look at me. I have 
 never succeeded in imitating that well-to-do, thoroughly 
 worthy villain. I began too late. Take warning, Orsino. 
 You are young. Grow fat and look on — then you will 
 die happy. All the philosophy of life is there. Farina- 
 ceous food, money and a wife. That is the recipe. Since 
 you have money you can purchase the gruel and the affec- 
 tions. Waste no time in making the investment." 
 
 "I never heard you advocate marriage before. You 
 seem to have changed your mind, of late." 
 
 "Not in the least. I distinguish between being mar- 
 ried and taking a wife, that is all." 
 
 "Eather a fine distinction." 
 
 " The only difference between a prisoner and his gaoler 
 is that they are on opposite sides of the same wall. Take 
 some more wine. We will drink to the man on the out- 
 side." 
 
 "May you never be inside," said Orsino. 
 
 Spicca emptied his glass and looked at him, as he set 
 it down again. 
 
 "May you never know what it is to have been inside," 
 he said. 
 
258 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "You speak as though you had some experience." 
 
 "Yes, I have — through an acquaintance of mine." 
 
 " That is the most agreeable way of gaining experience." 
 
 "Yes," answered Spicca with a ghastly smile. "Per- 
 haps I may tell you the story some day. You may profit 
 by it. It ended rather dramatically — so far as it can be 
 said to have ended at all. But we will not speak of it 
 just now. Here is another dish of poison — do you call 
 that thing a fish, Checco? Ah-^yes. I perceive that you 
 are right. The fact is apparent at a great distance. 
 Take it away. We are all mortal, Checco, but we do not 
 like to be reminded of it so very forcibly. Give me a 
 tomato and some vinegar." 
 
 "And the birds, Signore? Do you not want them any 
 more?" 
 
 " The birds — yes, I had forgotten. And another flask 
 of wine, Checco." 
 
 "It is not empty yet, Signore," observed the waiter 
 lifting the rush-covered bottle and shaking it a little. 
 
 Spicca silently poured out two glasses and handed him 
 the empty flask. He seemed to be very thirsty. Presently 
 he got his birds. They proved eatable, for quails are to 
 be had all through the summer in Italy, and he began to 
 eat in silence. Orsino watched him with some curiosity 
 wondering whether the quantity of wine he drank would 
 not ultimately produce some effect. As yet, however, 
 none was visible; his cadaverous face was as pale and 
 quiet as ever, and his sunken eyes had their usual ex- 
 , pression. 
 
 " And how does your business go on, Orsino? " he asked, 
 after a long silence. 
 
 Orsino answered him willingly enough and gave him 
 some account of his doings. He grew somewhat enthu- 
 siastic as he compared his present busy life with his 
 former idleness. 
 
 "I like the way you did it, in spite of everybody's 
 advice," said Spicca, kindly. "A man who can jump 
 through the paper ring of Roman prejudice without 
 
DON OKSINO. 259 
 
 stumbling must be nimble and have good legs. So no- 
 body gave you a word of encouragement? " 
 
 " Only one person, at first. I think you know her — 
 Madame d'Aranjuez. I used to see her often just at that 
 time." 
 
 '^Madame d'Aranjuez?" Spicca looked up sharply, 
 pausing with his glass in his hand. 
 
 "You know her?" 
 
 "Very well indeed," answered the old man, before he 
 drank. "Tell me, Orsino," he continued, when he had 
 finished the draught, "are you in love with that lady?" 
 
 Orsino was surprised by the directness of the question, 
 but he did not show it. 
 
 " Not in the least, " he answered, coolly. 
 
 "Then why did you act as though you were?" asked 
 Spicca looking him through and through. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you were watching me all 
 winter?" inquired Orsino, bending his black eyebrows 
 rather angrily. 
 
 , " Circumstances made it inevitable that I should know 
 of your visits. There was a time when you saw her 
 every day." 
 
 "I do not know what the circumstances, as you call 
 them, were," answered Orsino. "But I do not like to be 
 watched — even by my father's old friends." 
 
 "Keep your temper, Orsino," said Spicca, quietly. 
 "Quarrelling is always ridiculous unless somebody is 
 killed, and then it is inconvenient. If you understood 
 the nature of my acquaintance with Maria Consuelo — 
 with Madame d'Aranjuez, you would see that while not 
 meaning to spy upon you in the least, I could not be 
 ignorant of your movements." 
 
 " Your acquaintance must be a very close one, " observed 
 Orsino, far from pacified. 
 
 " So close that it has justified me in doing very odd 
 things on her account. You will not accuse me of taking 
 a needless and officious interest in the affairs of others, I 
 think. My own are quite enough for me. It chances 
 
260 DON OESINO. 
 
 that they are intimately connected with the doings of 
 Madame d'Aranjuez, and have been so for a number of 
 years. The fact that I do not desire the connexion to be 
 known does not make it easier for me to act, when I am 
 obliged to act at all. I did not ask an idle question when 
 I asked you if you loved her." 
 
 " I confess that I do not at all understand the situa- 
 tion," said Orsino. 
 
 " No. It is not easy to understand, unless I give you 
 the key to it. And yet you know more already than any 
 one in Eome. I shall be obliged if you will not repeat 
 what you know." 
 
 "You may trust me," answered Orsino, who saw from 
 Spicca's manner that the matter was very serious. 
 
 " Thank you. I see that you are cured of the idea that 
 I have been frivolously spying upon you for my own 
 amusement." 
 
 Orsino was silent. He thought of what had happened 
 after he had taken leave of Maria Consuelo. The mys- 
 terious maid who called herself Maria Consuelo's nurse, 
 or keeper, had perhaps spoken the truth. It was possible 
 that 8picca was one of the guardians responsible to an 
 unknown person for the insane lady's safety, and that he 
 was consequently daily informed by the maid of the 
 coming and going of visitors, and of other minor events. 
 On the other hand it seemed odd that Maria Consuelo 
 should be at liberty to go whithersoever she pleased. 
 She could not reasonably be supposed to have a guardian 
 in every city of Europe. The more he thought of this 
 improbability the less he understood the truth. 
 
 "I suppose I cannot hope that you will tell me more," 
 he said. 
 
 "I do not see why I should," answered Spicca, drink- 
 ing again. " I asked you an indiscreet question and I 
 have given you an explanation which you are kind enough 
 to accept. Let us say no more about it. It is better to 
 avoid unpleasant subjects." 
 
 "I should not call Madame d'Aranjuez an unpleasant 
 subject," observed Orsino. 
 
DON OESIKO. 261 
 
 " Then why did you suddenly cease to visit her? " asked. 
 Spicca. 
 
 " For the best of all reasons. Because she repeatedly 
 refused to receive me." He was less inclined to take 
 offence now than five minutes earlier. " I see that your 
 information was not complete." 
 
 " No. I was not aware of that. She must have had a 
 good reason for not seeing you." 
 
 "Possibly." 
 
 "But you cannot guess what the reason was?" 
 
 " Yes — and no. It depends upon her character, which 
 I do not pretend to understand." 
 
 " I understand it well enough. I can guess at the fact. 
 You made love to her, and one fine day, when she saw 
 that you were losing your head, she quietly told her ser- 
 vant to say that she was not at home when you called. 
 Is that it?" 
 
 "Possibly. You say you know her well — then you 
 know whether she would act in that way or not." 
 
 "I ought to know. I think she would. She is not 
 like other women — she has not the same blood." 
 
 "Who is she?" asked Orsino, with a sudden hope that 
 he might learn the truth. 
 
 " A woman — rather better than the rest — a widow, too, 
 the widow of a man who never was her husband — thank 
 God!" 
 
 Spicca slowly refilled and emptied his goblet for the 
 tenth time. 
 
 "The rest is a secret," he added, when he had finished 
 drinking. 
 
 The dark, sunken eyes gazed into Orsino's with an 
 expression so strange and full of a sort of inexplicable 
 horror, as to make the young man think that the deep 
 potations were beginning to produce an effect upon the 
 strong old head. Spicca sat quite still for several minutes 
 after he had spoken, and then leaned back in his cane chair 
 with a deep sigh. Orsino sighed too, in a sort of uncon- 
 scious sympathy, for even allowing for Spicca's natural 
 
262 DON ORSINO. 
 
 melancholy the secret was evidently an unpleasant one. 
 Orsino tried to turn the conversation, not, however, with- 
 out a hope of bringing it back unawares to the question 
 which interested him. 
 
 "And so you really mean to stay here all summer," he 
 remarked, lighting a cigarette and looking at the people 
 seated at a table behind Spicca. 
 
 Spicca did not answer at first, and when he did his 
 reply had nothing to do with Orsino's interrogatory 
 observation. 
 
 " We never get rid of the things we have done in our 
 lives, " he said, dreamily. " When a man sows seed in a 
 ploughed field some of the grains are picked out by birds, 
 and some never sprout. We are much more perfectly 
 organised than the earth. The actions we sow in our 
 souls all take root, inevitably and fatally — and they all 
 grow to maturity sooner or later." 
 
 Orsino stared at him for a moment. 
 
 "You are in a philosophising mood this evening," he 
 said. 
 
 "We are only logic's pawns," continued Spicca without 
 heeding the remark. " Or, if you like it better, we are 
 the Devil's chess pieces in his match against God. We 
 are made to move each in our own way. The one by 
 short irregular steps in every direction, the other in 
 long straight lines between starting point and goal — the 
 one stands still, like the king-piece, and never moves 
 unless he is driven to it, the other jumps unevenly like 
 the knight. It makes no difference. We take a certain 
 number of other pieces, and then we are taken ourselves 
 — always by the adversary — and tossed aside out of the 
 game. But then, it is easy to carry out the simile, be- 
 cause the game itself was founded on the facts of life, by 
 the people who invented it." 
 
 " No doubt, " said • Orsino, who was not very much in- 
 terested. 
 
 "Yes. You have only to give the pieces the names of 
 men and women you know, and to call the pawns society 
 
DON ORsmo. 263 
 
 — you -will see how very like real life chess can be. The 
 king and queen on each side are a married couple. Of 
 course, the object of each queen is to get the other king, 
 and all her friends help her— knights, bishops, rooks and 
 her set of society pawns. Very like real life, is it not? 
 Wait till you are married." 
 
 Spicca smiled grimly and took more wine. 
 
 "There at least you have no personal experience," ob- 
 jected Orsino. 
 
 But Spicca only smiled again, and vouchsafed no 
 answer. 
 
 "Is Madame d'Aranjuez coming back next winter?" 
 asked the young man. 
 
 " Madame d'Aranjuez will probably come back, since she 
 is free to consult her own tastes, " answered Spicca gravely. 
 
 " I hope she may be out of danger by that time, " said 
 Orsino quietly. He had resolved upon a bolder attack 
 than he had hitherto made. 
 
 "What danger is she in now?" asked Spicca quietly. 
 
 " Surely, you must know. " 
 
 "I do not understand you. Please speak plainly if 
 you are in earnest." 
 
 "Before she went away I called once more. When I 
 was coming away her maid met me in the corridor of the 
 hotel and told me that Madame d'Aranjuez was not quite 
 sane, and that she, the maid, was in reality her keeper, 
 or nurse — or whatever you please to call her." 
 
 Spicca laughed harshly. No one could remember to 
 have heard him laugh many times. 
 
 " Oh — she said that, did she? " He seemed very much 
 amused. "Yes," he added presently, "I think Madame 
 d'Aranjuez will be quite out of danger before Christmas." 
 
 Orsino was more puzzled than ever. He was almost 
 sure that Spicca did not look upon the maid's assertion 
 as serious, and in that case, if his interest in Maria 
 Consuelo was friendly, it was incredible that he should 
 seem amused at what was at least a very dangerous piece 
 of spite on the part of a trusted servant. 
 
264 DON OESINO. 
 
 "Then is there no truth in that woman's statement?" 
 asked Orsino. 
 
 " Madame d' Aranjuez seemed perfectly sane when I last 
 saw her," answered Spicca indifferently. 
 
 " Then what possible interest had the maid in inventing 
 the lie?" 
 
 "Ah — what interest? That is quite another matter, 
 as you say. It may not have been her own interest." 
 
 " You think that Madame d' Aranjuez had instructed 
 her? " 
 
 " Not necessarily. Some one else may have suggested 
 the idea, subject to the lady's own consent." 
 
 "And she would have consented? I do not believe 
 that." 
 
 " My dear Orsino, the world is full of such apparently 
 improbable things that it is always rash to disbelieve 
 anything on the first hearing. It is really much less 
 trouble to accept all that one is told without question." 
 
 " Of course, if you tell me positively that she wishes 
 to be thought mad " 
 
 " I never say anything positively, especially about a 
 woman — and least of all about the lady in question, who 
 is undoubtedly eccentric." 
 
 Instead of being annoyed, Orsino felt his curiosity 
 growing, and made a rash vow to find out the truth at any 
 price. It was inconceivable, he thought, that Spicca 
 should still have perfect control of his faculties, consid- 
 ering the extent of his potations. The second flask was 
 growing light, and Orsino himself had not taken more 
 than two or three glasses. Now a Chianti flask never 
 holds less than two quarts. Moreover Spicca was gen- 
 erally a very moderate man. He would assuredly not 
 resist the confusing effects of the wine much longer and 
 he would probably become confidential. 
 
 But Orsino had mistaken his man. Spicca's nerves, 
 overwrought by some unknown disturbance in his affairs- 
 were in that state in which far stronger stimulants than 
 Tuscan wine have little or no effect upon the brain. Orsino 
 
DON ORSESfO. 265 
 
 looked at him and wondered, as many had wondered 
 already, what sort of life the man had led, outside and 
 beyond the social existence which every one could see. 
 Few men had been dreaded like the famous duellist, who 
 had played with the best swordsmen in Europe as a cat 
 plays with a mouse. And yet he had been respected, as 
 well as feared. There had been that sort of fatality in 
 his quarrels which had saved him from the imputation 
 of having sought them. He had never been a gambler, 
 as reputed duellists often are. He had never refused to 
 stand second for another man out of personal dislike or 
 prejudice. No one had ever asked his help in vain, high 
 or low, rich or poor, in a reasonably good cause. His 
 acts of kindness came to light accidentally after many 
 years. Yet most people fancied that he hated mankind, 
 with that sort of generous detestation which never stoops 
 to take a mean advantage. In his duels he had always 
 shown the utmost consideration for his adversary and the 
 utmost indifference to his own interest when conditipns 
 had to be made. Above all, he had never killed a man 
 by accident. That is a crime which society does not for- 
 give. But he had not failed, either, when he had meant 
 to kill. His speech was often bitter, but never spiteful, 
 and, having nothing to fear, he was a very truthful man. 
 He was also reticent, however, and no one could boast of 
 knowing the story which every one agreed in saying had 
 so deeply influenced his life. He had often been absent 
 from Kome for long periods, and had been heard of as • 
 residing in more than one European capital. He had 
 always been supposed to be rich, but during the last three 
 years it had become clear to his friends that he was poor. 
 That is all, roughly speaking, which was known of John 
 Nepomucene, Count Spicca, by the society in which he 
 had spent more than half his life. 
 
 Orsino, watching the pale and melancholy face, com- 
 pared himself with his companion, and wondered whether 
 any imaginable series of events could turn him into such 
 a man at the same age. Yet he admired Spicca, besides 
 
266 DON oKsmo. 
 
 respecting him. Boy-like, he envied the great duellist 
 his reputation, his unerring skill, his unfaltering nerve; 
 he even envied him the fear he inspired in those whom 
 he did not like. He thought less highly of his sayings 
 now, perhaps, than when he had first been old enough 
 to understand them. The youthful affectation of cynicism 
 had agreed well with the old man's genuine bitterness, 
 but the pride of growing manhood was inclined to put 
 away childish things and had not yet suffered so as to 
 understand real suffering. Six months had wrought a 
 change in Orsino, and so far the change was for the better. 
 He had been fortunate in finding success at the first at- 
 tempt, and his passing passion for Maria Consuelo had 
 left little trace beyond a certain wondering regret that it 
 had not been greater, and beyond the recollection of her 
 sad face at their parting and of the sobs he had over- 
 heard. Though he could only give those tears one mean- 
 ing, he realised less and less as the months passed that 
 they had been shed for him. 
 
 That Maria Consuelo should often be in his thoughts 
 was no proof that he still loved her in the smallest 
 degree. There had been enough odd circumstances about 
 their acquaintance to rouse any ordinary man's interest, 
 and just at present Spicca's strange hints and half con- 
 fidences had excited an almost unbearable curiosity in 
 his hearer. But Spicca did not seem inclined to satisfy 
 it any further. 
 
 One or two points, at least, were made clear. Maria 
 Consuelo was not insane, as the maid had pretended. 
 Her marriage with the deceased Aranjuez had been a 
 marriage only in name, if it had even amounted to that. 
 Finally, it was evident that she stood in some very near 
 relation to Spicca and that neither she nor he wished the 
 fact to be known. To all appearance they had carefully 
 avoided meeting during the preceding winter, and no one 
 in society was aware that they were even acquainted. 
 Orsino recalled more than one occasion when each had 
 been mentioned in the presence of the other. He had a 
 
DON ORSINO. 267 
 
 good memory and he remembered that a scarcely percep- 
 tible change had taken place in the manner or conversation 
 of the one who heard the other's name. It even seemed 
 to him that at such moments Maria Consuelo had shown 
 an infinitesimal resentment, whereas Spicca had faintly 
 exhibited something more like impatience. If this were 
 true, it argued that Spicca was more friendly to Maria 
 Consuelo than she was to him. Yet on this particular 
 evening Spicca had spoken somewhat bitterly of her — 
 but then, Spicca was always bitter. His last remark was 
 to the effect that she was eccentric. After a long silence, 
 during which Orsino hoped that his friend would say 
 something more, he took up the point. 
 
 "I wish I knew what you meant by eccentric," he said. 
 " I had the advantage of seeing Madame d' Aranjuez fre- 
 quently, and I did not notice any eccentricity about her." 
 
 " Ah — perhaps you are not observant. Or perhaps, as 
 you say, we do not mean the same thing." 
 
 "That is why I would like to hear your definition," 
 observed Orsino. 
 
 "The world is mad on the subject of definitions," an- 
 swered Spicca. " It is more blessed to define than to be 
 defined. It is a pleasant thing to say to one's enemy, 
 'Sir, you are a scoundrel.' But when your enemy says 
 the same thing to you, you kill him without hesitation 
 or regret — which proves, I suppose, that you are not 
 pleased with his definition of you. You see definition, 
 after all, is a matter of taste. So, as our tastes might 
 not agree, I would rather not define anything this even- 
 ing. I believe I have finished that flask. Let us take 
 our coffee. We can define that beforehand, for we know 
 by daily experience how diabolically bad it is." 
 
 Orsino saw that Spicca meant to lead the conversation 
 away in another direction. 
 
 "May I ask you one serious question?" he inquired, 
 leaning forward. 
 
 "With a little ingenuity you may even ask me a dozen, 
 all equally serious, my dear Orsino. But I cannot promise 
 
268 CON OKSINO. 
 
 to answer all or any particular one. I am not omniscient, 
 you know." 
 
 " My question is this. I have no sort of right to ask 
 it. I know that. Are you nearly related to Madame 
 d'Aranjuez?" 
 
 Spicca looked curiously at him. 
 
 " Would the information be of any use to you?" he 
 asked. " Should I be doing you a service in telling you 
 that we are, or are not related?" 
 
 "Frankly, no," answered Orsino, meeting the steady 
 glance without wavering. 
 
 " Then I do not see any reason whatever for telling you 
 the truth," returned Spicca quietly. "But I will give 
 you a piece of general information. If harm comes to 
 that lady through any man whomsoever, I will certainly 
 kill him, even if I have to be carried upon the ground." 
 
 There was no mistaking the tone in which the threat 
 was uttered. Spicca meant what he said, though not one 
 syllable was spoken louder than another. In his mouth 
 the words had a terrific force, and told Orsino more of 
 the man's true nature than he had learnt in years. 
 Orsino was not easily impressed, and was certainly not 
 timid, morally or physically; moreover he was in the 
 prime of youth and not less skilful than other men in 
 the use of weapons. But he felt at that moment that he 
 would infinitely rather attack a regiment of artillery 
 single-handed than be called upon to measure swords with 
 the cadaverous old invalid who sat on the other side of 
 the table. 
 
 " It is not in my power to do any harm to Madame 
 d'Aranjuez," he answered proudly enough, "and you 
 ought to know that if it were, it could not possibly be 
 in my intention. Therefore your threat is not intended 
 for me." 
 
 "Very good, Orsino. Your father would have an- 
 swered like that, and you mean what you say. If I were 
 young I think that you and I should be friends. Fortu- 
 nately for you there is a matter of forty yea,rs' difference 
 
DON ORSINO. 269 
 
 between our ages, so that you escape the infliction of such 
 a nuisance as my friendship. You must find it bad 
 enough to have to put up with my company." 
 
 "Do not talk like that," answered Orsino. "The 
 world is not all vinegar." 
 
 "Well, well — you will find out what the world is in 
 time. And perhaps you will find out many other things 
 which you want to know. I must be going, for I have 
 letters to write. Checco! My bill." 
 
 Five minutes later they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Although Orsino's character was developing quickly 
 in the new circumstances which he had created for him- 
 self, he was not of an age to be continually on his guard 
 against passing impressions ; still less could it be ex- 
 pected that he should be hardened against them by 
 experience, as many men are by nature. His conversa- 
 tion with Spicca, and Spicca's own behaviour while it 
 lasted, produced a decided eifect upon the current of his 
 thoughts, and he was surprised to find himself thinking 
 more often and more seriously of Maria Consuelo than 
 during the months which had succeeded her departure 
 from Rome. Spicca's words had acted indirectly upon his 
 mind. Much that the old man had said was calculated 
 to rouse Orsino's curiosity, but Orsino was not naturally 
 curious and though he felt that it would be very inter- 
 esting to know Maria Consuelo's story, the chief result 
 of the Count's half confidential utterances was to recall 
 the lady herself very vividly to his recollection. 
 
 At first his memory merely brought back the endless 
 details of his acquaintance with her, which had formed 
 the central feature of the first season he had spent with- 
 out interruption in Eome and in society. He was sur- 
 
270 DON ORSINO. 
 
 prised at the extreme precision of the pictures evoked, 
 and took pleasure in calling them up when he was alone 
 and unoccupied. The events themselves had not, per- 
 haps, been all agreeable, yet there was not one which it 
 did not give him some pleasant sensation to remember. 
 There was a little sadness in some of them, and more 
 than once the sadness was mingled with something of 
 humiliation. Yet even this last was bearable. Though 
 he did not realise it, he was quite unable to think of 
 Maria Consuelo without feeling some passing touch of 
 happiness at the thought, for happiness can live with 
 sadness when it is the greater of the two. He had no 
 desire to analyse these sensations. Indeed the idea did 
 not enter his mind that they were worth analysing. His 
 intelligence was better employed with his work, and his 
 reflexions concerning Maria Consuelo chiefly occupied his 
 hours of rest. 
 
 The days passed quickly at first and then, as September 
 came they seemed longer, instead of shorter. He was 
 beginning to wish that the winter would come, that he 
 might again see the woman of whom he was continually 
 thinking. More than once he thought of writing to her, 
 for he had the address which the maid had given him — 
 an address in Paris which said nothing, a mere number 
 with the name of a street. He wondered whether she 
 would answer him, and when he had reached the self- 
 satisfying conviction that she would, he at last wrote a 
 letter, such as any person might write to another. He 
 told her of the weather, of the dulness of Eome, of his 
 hope that she would return early in the season, and of 
 his own daily occupations. It was a simply expressed, 
 natural and not at all emotional epistle, not at all like 
 that of a man in the least degree in love with his corre- 
 spondent, but Orsino felt an odd sensation of pleasure in 
 writing it and was surprised by a little thrill of happi- 
 ness as he posted it with his own hand. 
 
 He did not forget the letter when he had sent it, either, 
 as one forgets the uninteresting letters one is obliged to 
 
DON ORSINO. 271 
 
 write out of civility. He hoped for an answer. Even if 
 she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might not, and prob- 
 ably would not, reply by return of post. And it was 
 not probable that she would be in town at the beginning 
 of September. Orsino calculated the time necessary to 
 forward the letter from Paris to the most distant part of 
 frequented Europe, allowed her three days for answering 
 and three days more for her letter to reach him. The 
 interval elapsed, but nothing came. Then he was irri- 
 tated, and at last he became anxious. Either something 
 had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had somehow 
 unconsciously offended her by what he had written. He 
 had no copy of the letter and could not recall a single 
 phrase which could have displeased her, but he feared 
 lest something might have crept into it which she might 
 misinterpret. But this idea was too absurd to be tenable 
 for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must 
 be ill or in some great trouble. He was amazed at his 
 own anxiety. 
 
 Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet 
 no word of reply had reached him. Then he sought out 
 Spicea and asked him boldly whether anything had hap- 
 pened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written 
 to her and had got no answer. Spicea looked at him 
 curiously for a moment. 
 
 "Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware," 
 he said, almost immediately. "I saw her this morning." 
 
 " This morning? " Orsino was surprised almost out of 
 words. 
 
 "Yes. She is here, looking for an apartment in which 
 to spend the winter." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 Spicea named the hotel, adding that Orsino would 
 probably find her at home during the hot hours of the 
 afternoon. 
 
 "Has she been here long?" asked the young man. 
 
 "Three days." 
 
 " I will go and see her at once. I may be useful to 
 her in finding an apartment." 
 
272 DON ORsmo. 
 
 "That would be very kind of you," observed Spieca, 
 glancing at him rather thoughtfully. 
 
 On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself 
 at the hotel and asked for Madame d'Aranjuez. She 
 received him in a room not very different from the one 
 of which she had had made her sitting-room during the 
 winter. As always, one or two new books and the myste- 
 rious silver paper cutter were the only objects of her own 
 which were visible. Orsino hardly noticed the fact, 
 however, for she was already in the room when he en- 
 tered, and his eyes met hers at once. 
 
 He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, 
 but the heat was great and might easily account for her 
 pallor. Her eyes were deeper, and their tawny colour 
 seemed darker. Her hand was cold. 
 
 She smiled faintly as she met Orsino, but said nothing 
 and sat down at a distance from the windows. 
 
 "I only heard last night that you were in Rome," he 
 said. 
 
 " And you came at once to see me. Thanks. How did 
 you find it out? " 
 
 " Spieca told me. I had asked him for news of you." 
 
 "Why him?" inquired Maria Consuelo with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Because I fancied he might know," answered Orsino 
 passing lightly over the question. He did not wish even 
 Maria Consuelo to guess that Spieca had spoken of her 
 to him. " The reason why I was anxious about you was 
 that I had written you a letter. I wrote some weeks ago 
 to your address in Paris and got no answer." 
 
 "You wrote?" Maria Consuelo seemed surprised. "I 
 have not been in Paris. Who gave you the address? 
 What was it? " 
 
 Orsino named the street and the number. 
 
 " I once lived there a short time, two years ago. Who 
 gave you the address? Not Count Spieca?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Orsino hesitated to say more. He did not like to 
 
DON OKSINO. 273 
 
 admit that he had received the address from Maria Con- 
 suelo's maid, and it might seem incredible that the woman 
 should have given the information unasked. At the same 
 time the fact that the address was to all intents and pur- 
 poses a false one tallied with the maid's spontaneous 
 statement in regard to her mistress's mental alienation. 
 
 "Why will you not tell me?" asked Maria Consuelo. 
 
 "The answer involves a question which does not con- 
 cern me. The address was evidently intended to deceive 
 me. The person who gave it attempted to deceive me 
 about a far graver matter, too. Let us say no more about 
 it. Of course you never got the letter? " 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 A short silence followed which Orsino felt to be rather 
 awkward. Maria Consuelo looked at him suddenly. 
 
 "Did my maid tell you?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes — since you ask me. She met me in the corridor 
 after my last visit and thrust the address upon me." 
 
 "I thought so," said Maria Consuelo. 
 
 "You have suspected her before?" 
 
 "What was the other deception?" 
 
 " That is a more serious matter. The woman is your 
 trusted servant. At least you must have trusted her 
 when you took her " 
 
 " That does not follow. What did she try to make you 
 believe?" 
 
 "It is hard to tell you. For all I know, she may have 
 been instructed — you may have instructed her yourself. 
 One stumbles upon odd things in life, sometimes." 
 
 "You called yourself my friend once, Don Orsino." 
 
 "If you will let me, I will call myself so still." 
 
 " Then, in the name of friendship, tell me what the 
 woman said! " Maria Consuelo spoke with sudden energj^, 
 touching his arm quickly with an unconscious gesture. 
 
 "Will you believe me?" 
 
 " Are you accustomed to being doubted, that you ask? " 
 
 "Ko. But this thing is very strange." 
 
 "Do not keep me waiting — it hurts me! " 
 
 T 
 
274 DON OESINO. 
 
 " The woman stopped me as I was going away. I had 
 never spoken to her. She knew my name. She told me 
 that you were— how shall I say? — mentally deranged." 
 
 Maria Consuelo started and turned very pale. 
 
 " She told you that I was mad? " Her voice sank to a 
 whisper. 
 
 "That is what she said." 
 
 Orsino watched her narrowly. She evidently believed 
 him. Then she sank back in her chair with a stifled cry 
 of horror, covering her eyes with her hands. 
 
 " And you might have believed it ! " she exclaimed. 
 " You might really have believed it — you ! " 
 
 The cry came from her heart and would have shown 
 Orsino what weight she still attached to his opinion had 
 he not himself been too suddenly and deeply interested 
 in the principal question to pay attention to details. 
 
 "She made the statement very clearly," he said. 
 "What could have been her object in the lie? 
 
 " What object? Ah— if I knew that " 
 
 Maria Consuelo rose and paced the room, her head bent 
 and her hands nervously clasping and unclasping. Orsino 
 stood by the empty fireplace, watching her. 
 
 "You will send the woman away of course?" he said, 
 in a questioning tone. 
 
 But she shook her head and her anxiety seemed to 
 increase. 
 
 " Is it possible that you will submit to such a thing 
 from a servant? " he asked in astonishment. 
 
 "I have submitted to much," she answered in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " The inevitable, of course. But to keep a maid whom 
 you can turn away at any moment " 
 
 "Yes — but can I?" She stopped and looked at him. 
 "Oh, if I only could — if you knew how I hate the 
 woman " 
 
 "But then " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you are in some way in 
 her power, so that you are bound to keep her always?" 
 
DON OEsnsro. 275 
 
 Maria Consuelo hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Are you in her power?" asked Orsino a second time. 
 He did not like the idea and his black brows bent them- 
 selves rather angrily. 
 
 "No — not directly. She is imposed upon me." 
 
 "By circumstances?" 
 
 " No, again. By a person who has the power to impose 
 much upon me — but this ! Oh this is almost too much ! 
 To be called mad!" 
 
 "Then do not submit to it." 
 
 Orsino spoke decisively, with a kind of authority which 
 surprised himself. He was amazed and righteously angry 
 at the situation so suddenly revealed to him, undefined 
 as it was. He saw that he was touching a great trouble 
 and his natural energy bid him lay violent hands on it 
 and root it out if possible. 
 
 For some minutes Maria Consuelo did not speak, but 
 continued to pace the room, evidently in great anxiety. 
 Then she stopped before him. 
 
 "It is easy for you to say, 'do not submit,' when you 
 do not understand," she said. "If you knew what my 
 life is, you would look at this in another way. I must 
 submit — I cannot do otherwise." 
 
 " If you would tell me something more, I might help 
 you," answered Orsino. 
 
 " You? " She paused. " I believe you would, if you 
 could," she added, thoughtfully. 
 
 " You know that I would. Perhaps I can, as it is, in 
 ignorance, if you will direct me." 
 
 A sudden light gleamed in Maria Consuelo's eyes and 
 then died away as quickly as it had come, v 
 
 "After all, what could you do?" she asked with a 
 change of tone, as though she were somehow disap- 
 pointed. "What .could you do that others would not do 
 as well, if they could, and with a better right? " 
 
 "Unless you will tell me, how can I know?" 
 
 « Yes— if I could tell you." 
 
 She went and sat down in her former seat and Orsino 
 
276 DON OESINO. 
 
 took a chair beside her. He had expected to renew the 
 acquaintance in a very different way, and that he should 
 spend half an hour with Maria Consuelo in talking about 
 apartments, about the heat and about the places she had 
 visited. Instead, circumstances had made the conversa- 
 tion an intimate one full of an absorbing interest to 
 both. Orsino found that he had forgotten much which 
 pleased him strangely now that it was again brought 
 before him. He had forgotten most of all, it seemed, 
 that an unexplained sympathy attracted him to her, and 
 her to him. He wondered at the strength of it, and 
 found it hard to understand that last meeting with her 
 in the spring. 
 
 " Is there any way of helping you, without knowing 
 your secret?" he asked in a low voice. 
 
 "No. But I thank you for the wish." 
 
 "Are you sure there is no way? Quite sure?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "May I say something that strikes me?" 
 
 " Say anything you choose." 
 
 " There is a plot against you. You seem to know it. 
 Have you never thought of plotting on your side? " 
 
 " I have no one to help me." 
 
 " You have me, if you will take my help. And you 
 have Spicca. You might do better, but you might do 
 worse. Between us we might accomplish something." 
 
 Maria Consuelo had started at Spicea's name. She 
 seemed very nervous that day. 
 
 " Do you know what you are sayiag? " she asked after 
 a moment's thought. 
 
 "Nothing that should offend you, at least." 
 
 " No. But you are proposing that I should ally myself 
 with the man of all others whom I have reason to hate." 
 
 "You hate Spicca?" Orsino was passing from one 
 surprise to another. 
 
 "Whether I hate him or not, is another matter. I 
 ought to." 
 
 "At all events he does not hate you." 
 
DON ORSINO. 277 
 
 " I know he does not. That makes it no easier for me. 
 I could not accept his help."* 
 
 " All this is so mysterious that I do not know what to 
 say," said Orsino, thoughtfully. " The fact remains, and 
 it is bad enough. You need help urgently. You are in 
 the power of a servant who tells your friends that you 
 are insane and thrusts false addresses upon them, for 
 purposes which I cannot explain." 
 
 "Nor I either, though I may guess." 
 
 " It is worse and worse. You cannot even be sure of 
 the motives of this woman, though you know the person 
 or persons by whom she is forced upon you. You cannot 
 get rid of her yourself and you will not let any one else 
 help you." 
 
 "Not Count Spicca." 
 
 " And yet I am sure that he would do much for you. 
 Can you not even tell me why you hate him, or ought to 
 hate him? " 
 
 Maria Consuelo hesitated and looked into Orsino's eyes 
 for a moment. 
 
 " Can I trust you? " she asked. 
 
 "Implicitly." 
 
 "He killed my husband." 
 
 Orsino uttered a low exclamation of horror. In the 
 deep silence which followed he heard Maria Consuelo 
 draw her breath once or twice sharply through her closed 
 teeth, as though she were in great pain. 
 
 "I do not wish it known," she said presently, in a 
 changed voice. " I do not know why I told you." 
 
 "You can trust me." 
 
 "I must — since I have spoken." 
 
 In the surprise caused by the startling confidence, 
 '■Orsino suddenly felt that his capacity for sympathy had 
 grown to great dimensions. If he had been a woman, the 
 tears would have stood in his eyes. Being what he was, 
 he felt them in his heart. It was clear that she had 
 loved the dead man very dearly. In the light of this 
 evident fact, it was hard to explain her conduct towards 
 
278 DON OKSINO. 
 
 Orsino during the winter and especially at their last 
 meeting. 
 
 For a long time neither spoke again. Orsino, indeed, 
 had nothing to say at first, for nothing he could say could 
 reasonably be supposed to be of any use. He had learned 
 the existence of something like a tragedy in Maria Con- 
 suelo's life, and he seemed to be learning the first lesson 
 of friendship, which teaches sympathy. It was not an 
 occasion for making insignificant phrases expressing his 
 regret at her loss, and the language he needed in order to 
 say what he meant was unfamiliar to his lips. He was 
 silent, therefore, but his young face was grave and 
 thoughtful, and his eyes sought hers from time to time as 
 though trying to discover and forestall her wishes. At 
 last she glanced at him quickly, then looked down, and 
 at last spoke to him. 
 
 " You will not make me regret having told you this — 
 will you?" she asked. 
 
 "No. I promise you that." 
 
 So far as Orsino could understand the words meant very 
 little. He was not very communicative, as a rule, and 
 would certainly not tell what he had heard, so that the 
 promise was easily given and easy to keep. If he did not 
 break it, he did not see that she could have any further 
 cause for regretting her confidence in him. Neverthe- 
 less, by way of reassuring her, he thought it best to 
 repeat what he had said in different words. 
 
 " You may be quite sure that whatever you choose to 
 tell me is in safe keeping," he said. "And you may be 
 sure, too, that if it is in my power to do you a service of 
 any kind, you will find me ready, and more than ready, 
 to help you." 
 
 "Thank you," she answered, looking earnestly at him^ 
 
 "Whether the matter be small or great," he added, 
 meeting her eyes. 
 
 Perhaps she expected to find more curiosity on his part, 
 and fancied that he would ask some further question. 
 He did not understand the meaning of her look. 
 
DON OESEsro. 279 
 
 "I believe you," she said at last. "I am too much in 
 need of a friend to doubt you." 
 
 "You have found one." 
 
 " I do not know. I am not sure. There are other things 
 • " she stopped suddenly and looked away. 
 
 " What other things ? " 
 
 But Maria Consuelo did not answer. Orsino knew 
 that she was thinking of all that had once passed be- 
 tween them. He wondered whether, if he led the way, 
 she would press him as she had done at their last meet- 
 ing. If she did, he wondered what he should say. He 
 had been very cold then, far colder than he was now. He 
 now felt drawn to her, as in the first days of their ac- 
 quaintance. He felt always that he was on the point of 
 understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for some- 
 thing which should help him to pass that point. 
 
 "What other things?" he asked, repeating his ques- 
 tion. " Do you mean that there are reasons which may 
 prevent me from being a good friend of yours ? " 
 
 "I am afraid there are. I do not know." 
 
 "I thiiik you are mistaken, Madame. Will you name 
 some of those reasons — or even one? " 
 
 Maria Consuelo did not answer at once. She glanced 
 at him, looked down, and then her eyes met his again. 
 
 " Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman 
 chooses for her friend?" she asked at length, with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 " I have not thought of the matter " 
 
 "But you should— before offering your friendship." 
 
 "Why? If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, 
 
 if I am — " he hesitated, weighing his words—" if I am 
 
 personally attached to you, why can I not help you? I 
 
 ^m honest, and in earnest. May I say as much as that 
 
 of myself?" 
 
 "I believe you are." 
 
 " Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom 
 a woman might take for a friend when a better is not at 
 hand." 
 
280 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?" 
 asked Maria Consuelo quietly. 
 
 " I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve 
 anything nowadays," answered Orsino. 
 
 " True — and the word 'friend' has such a pretty sound ! " 
 She laughed, for the first time since he had entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame. Is 
 not that a sign that you need no friend at all, and that 
 your questions are not seriously meant? " 
 
 "Perhaps. Who knows?" 
 
 " Do you know, yourself? " 
 
 "No." Again she laughed a little, and then grew sud- 
 denly grave. 
 
 "I never knew a woman who needed a friend more 
 urgently than you do, " said Orsino. " I do not in the 
 least understand your position. The little you have told 
 me makes it clear enough that there have been and still 
 are unusual circumstances in your life. One thing I see. 
 That woman whom you call your maid is forced upon 
 you against your will, to watch you, and is privileged to 
 tell lies about you which may do you a great injury. I 
 do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, 
 but I see that you must, and I guess that you hate it. 
 Would it be an act of friendship to free you from her or 
 not? " 
 
 "At present it would not be an act of friendship," an- 
 swered Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully. 
 
 "That is very strange. Do you mean to say that you 
 submit voluntarily " 
 
 " The woman is a condition imposed upon me. I can- 
 . not tell you more." > 
 
 " And no friend, no friendly help can change the con- 
 dition, I suppose." 
 
 "I did not say that. But such help is beyond your 
 power, Don Orsino," *she added turning towards him 
 rather suddenly. "Let us not talk of this any more. 
 Believe me, nothing can be done. You have, sometimes 
 
DON OKSINO. 281 
 
 acted strangely with me, but I really think you would 
 help me if you could. Let that be the state of our ac- 
 quaintance. You are willing, and I believe that you are. 
 Nothing more. Let that be our compact. But you can 
 perhaps help me in another way— a smaller way. I want 
 a habitation of some kind for the winter, for I am tired 
 of camping out in hotels. You who know your own city 
 so well can name some person who will undertake the 
 matter." 
 
 "I know the very man," said Orsino promptly. 
 
 "Will you write out the address for me?" 
 
 "It is not necessary. I mean myself." 
 
 "I could not let you take so much trouble," protested 
 Maria Consuelo. 
 
 But she accepted, nevertheless, after a little hesitation. 
 For some time they discussed the relative advantages of 
 the various habitable quarters of the city, both glad, per- 
 haps, to find an almost indifferent subject of conversation, 
 and both relatively happy merely in being together. The 
 talk made one of those restful interludes which are so 
 necessary, and often so hard to produce, between two 
 people whose thoughts run upon a strong common inter- 
 est, and who find it difficult to exchange half a dozen 
 words without being led back to the absorbing topic. 
 
 What had been said had produced a decided effect upon 
 Orsino. He had come expecting to take up the acquaint- 
 ance on a new footing, but ten minutes had not elapsed 
 before he had found himself as much interested as ever in 
 Maria Consuelo's personality, and far more interested in 
 her life than he had ever been before. While talking 
 with more or less indifference about the chances of secur- 
 ing a suitable apartment for the winter, Orsino listened 
 with an odd sensation of pleasure to every tone of his 
 companion's voice and watched every changing expression 
 of the striking face. He wondered whether he were not 
 perhaps destined to love her sinu.3rely as he had already 
 loved her in a boyish, capricious fashion which would no 
 longer be natural to him now. But for the present he 
 
282 DON OKSINO. 
 
 was sure that he did not love her, and that he desired 
 nothing but her sympathy for himself, and to feel sym- 
 pathy for her. Those were the words he used, and he 
 did not explain them to his own intelligence in any very 
 definite way. He was conscious, indeed, that they 
 meant more than formerly, but the same was true of 
 almost everything that came into his life, and he did not 
 therefore attach any especial importance to the fact. He 
 was altogether much more in earnest than when he had 
 first met Maria Consuelo ; he was capable of deeper feel- 
 ing, of stronger determination and of more decided action 
 in all matters, and though he did not say so to himself 
 he was none the less aware of the change. 
 
 "Shall we make an appointment for to-morrow?" he 
 asked, after theyhad been talking some time. 
 
 " Yes — ^but there is one thing I wanted to ask you " 
 
 "What is that?" inquired Orsino, seeing that she 
 hesitated. 
 
 The faint colour rose in her cheeks, but she looked 
 straight into his eyes, with a kind of fearless expression, 
 as though she were facing a danger. 
 
 " Tell me, " she said, " in Rome, where everything is 
 known and every one talks so much, will it not be thought 
 strange that you and I should be driving about together, 
 looking for a house for me? Tell me the truth." 
 
 "What can people say?" asked Orsino. 
 
 " Many things. Will they say them? " 
 
 "If they do, I can make them stop talking." 
 
 "That means that they will talk, does it not? Would 
 you like that?" 
 
 There was a sudden change in her face, with a look of 
 doubt and anxious perplexity. Orsino saw it and felt 
 that she was putting him upon his honour, and that 
 whatever the doubt might be it had nothing to do with 
 her trust in him. Six months earlier he would not have 
 hesitated to demonstrate that her fears were empty — but 
 he felt that six months earlier she might not have yielded 
 to his reasoning. It was instinctive, but his instinct was 
 not mistaken. 
 
DON OESINO. 283 
 
 "I think you are right," he said slowly. "We should 
 not do it. I will send my architect with you." 
 
 There was enough regret in the tone to show that he 
 was making a considerable sacrifice. A little delicacy 
 means more when it comes from a strong man, than when 
 it is the natural expression of an over-refined and some- 
 what effeminate character. And Orsino was rapidly 
 developing a strength of which other people were con- 
 scious. Maria Consuelo was pleased, though she, too, 
 was perhaps sorry to give up the projected plan. 
 
 "After all," she said, thoughtlessly, "you can come 
 and see me here, if " 
 
 She stopped and blushed again, more deeply this time; 
 but she turned her face away and in the half light the 
 change of colour was hardly noticeable. 
 
 "You were going to say 'if you care to see me,' " said 
 Orsino. " I am glad you did not say it. It would not 
 have been kind." 
 
 "Yes — I was going to say that," she answered quietly. 
 "But I will not." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Why do you thank me?" 
 
 "For not hurting me." 
 
 " Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any 
 way?" 
 
 "I would rather not think so. You did once." 
 
 The words slipped from his lips almost before he had 
 time to realise what they meant. He was thinking of the 
 night when she had drawn up the carriage window, leav- 
 ing him standing on the pavement, and of her repeated 
 refusals tosee him afterwards. It seemed long ago, and 
 the hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied 
 that it must have- been, judging from what he now felt. 
 She looked at him quickly as though wondering what he 
 would say next. 
 
 "I never meant to be unkind," she said. "I have often 
 asked myself whether you could say as much." 
 
 It was Orsino's turn to change colour. He was young 
 
284 DON OESINO. 
 
 enough for that, and the blood rose slowly in his dark 
 cheeks. He thought again of their last meeting, and of 
 what he had heard as he shut the door after him on that 
 day. Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo 
 was sorry for what she had said, and a little ashamed of 
 her weakness, as indeed she had some cause to be, and 
 she immediately turned back to a former point of the 
 conversation, not too far removed from what had last 
 been said. 
 
 "You see," said she, "I was right to ask you whether 
 people would talk. And I am grateful to you for telling 
 me the truth'. It is a first proof of friendship — of some- 
 thing better than our old relations. Will you send me 
 your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer 
 his help?" 
 
 After arranging for the hour of meeting Orsino rose to 
 take his leave. 
 
 "May I come to-morrow?" he asked. "People will 
 not talk abaut that," he added with a smile. 
 
 " You can ask for me. I may be out. If I am at home, 
 I shall be glad to see you." 
 
 She spoke coldly, and Orsino saw that she was looking 
 over his shoulder. He turned instinctively and saw that 
 the door was open and Spicca was standing just outside, 
 looking in and apparently waiting for a word from Maria 
 Consuelo before entering. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ^ As Orsino had no reason whatever for avoiding Spicca 
 he naturally waited a moment instead of leaving the room 
 immediately. He looked at the old man with a new 
 interest as the latter came forward. He had never seen 
 and probably would never see again a man taking the 
 hand of a woman whose husband he had destroyed. He 
 
BON OKSINO. 285 
 
 stood a little back and Spieca passed him as he met Maria 
 Consuelo. Orsino watched the faces of both. 
 
 Madame d'Aranjuez put out her hand mechanically and 
 with evident reluctance, and Orsino guessed that but for 
 his own presence she would not have given it. The ex- 
 pression in her face changed rapidly from that which had 
 been there when they had been alone, hardening very 
 quickly until it reminded Orsino of a certain mask of the 
 Medusa which had once made an impression upon his 
 imagination. Her eyes were fixed and the pupils grew 
 small while the singular golden yellow colour of the iris 
 flashed disagreeably. She did not bend her head as she 
 silently gave her hand. 
 
 Spieca, too, seemed momentarily changed. He was as 
 pale and thin as ever, but his face softened oddly; cer- 
 tain lines which contributed to his usually bitter and 
 sceptical expression disappeared, while others became 
 visible which changed his look completely. He bowed 
 with more deference than he affected with other women, 
 and Orsino fancied that he would have held Maria Con- 
 suelo's hand a moment longer, if she had not withdrawn 
 it as soon as it had touched his. 
 
 If Orsino had not already known that Spieca often saw 
 her, he would have been amazed at the count's visit, con- 
 sidering what she had said of the man. As it was, he 
 wondered what power Spieca had over her to oblige her 
 to receive him, and he wondered in vain. The conclusion 
 which forced itself before him was that Spieca was the 
 person who imposed the serving woman upon Maria Con- 
 suelo. But her behaviour towards him, on the other 
 hand, was not that of a person obliged by circumstances 
 to submit to the caprices and dictation of another. Judg- 
 ing by the appearance of the two, it seemed more probable 
 that the power was on the other side, and might be used 
 mercilessly on occasion. 
 
 "I hope I am not disturbing your plans," said Spieca, 
 in a tone which was almost humble, and very unlike big 
 usual voice, "Were you going out together? " 
 
286 DON OKSINO. 
 
 He shook hands with Orsino, avoiding his glance, as 
 the young man thought. 
 
 " No, " answered Maria Consuelo briefly. " I was not 
 going out." 
 
 "I am just going away," said Orsino by way of expla- 
 nation, and he made as though he would take his leave. 
 
 "Do not go yet," said Maria Consuelo. Her look made 
 the words imperative. 
 
 Spicca glanced from one to the other with a sort of 
 submissive protest, and then all three sat down. Orsino 
 wondered what part he was expected to play in the trio, 
 and wished himself away in spite of the interest he felt 
 in the situation. 
 
 Maria Consuelo began to talk in a careless tone which 
 reminded him of his first meeting with her in Gouache's 
 studio. She told Spicca that Orsino had promised her 
 his architect as a guide in her search for a lodging. 
 
 "What sort of person is he?" inquired Spicca, evi- 
 dently for the sake of making conversation. 
 
 " Contini is a man of business, " Orsino answered. " An 
 odd fellow, full of talent, and a musical genius. One 
 would not expect very much of him at first, but he will 
 do all that Madame d'Aranjuez needs." 
 
 " Otherwise you would not have recommended him, I 
 suppose," said Spicca. 
 
 "Certainly not," replied Orsino, looking at him. 
 
 "You must know, Madame," said Spicca, "that Don 
 Orsino is an excellent judge of men. " 
 
 He emphasised the last word in a way that seemed 
 unnecessary. Maria Consuelo had recovered all her 
 equanimity and laughed carelessty. 
 
 " How you say that ! " she exclaimed. " Is it a warn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Against what?" asked Orsino. 
 
 " Probably against you, " she said. " Count Spicca likes 
 to throw out vague hints — but I will do him the credit to 
 say that they generally mean something." She added 
 the last words rather scornfully. 
 
DON OKSINO. 287 
 
 An expression of pain passed, over the old man's face. 
 But he said nothing, though it was not like him to pass 
 by a challenge of the kind. Without in the least under- 
 standing the reason of the sensation, Orsino felt sorry for 
 him. 
 
 "Among men, Count Spicca's opinion is worth hav- 
 ing," he said quietly. 
 
 Maria Consuelo looked at him in some surprise. The 
 phrase sounded like a rebuke, and her eyes betrayed her 
 annoyance. 
 
 " How delightful it is to hear one man defend another ! " 
 she laughed. 
 
 "I fancy Count Spicca does not stand much in need of 
 defence," replied Orsino, without changing his tone. 
 
 "He himself is the best judge of that." 
 
 Spicca raised his weary eyes to hers and looked at her 
 for a moment, before he answered. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I think I am the best judge. But I 
 am not accustomed to being defended, least of all against 
 you, Madame. The sensation is a new one." 
 
 Orsino felt himself out of place. He was more warmly 
 attached to Spicca than he knew, and though he was at 
 that time not far removed from loving Maria Consuelo, 
 her tone in speaking to the old man, which said far more 
 than her words, jarred upon him, and he could not help 
 taking his friend's part. On the other hand the ugly 
 truth that Spicca had caused the death of Aranjuez more 
 than justified Maria Consuelo in her hatred. Behind all, 
 there was evidently some good reason why Spicca came 
 to see her, and there was some bond between the two 
 which made it impossible for her to refuse his visits. It 
 was clear too, that though she hated him he felt some 
 kind of strong affection for her. In her presence he was 
 very unlike his daily self. 
 
 Again Orsino moved and looked at her, as though ask- 
 ing her permission to go away. But she refused it with 
 an imperative gesture and a look of annoyance. She 
 evidently did not wish to be left alone with the old man. 
 
288 DON OESINO. 
 
 Without paying any further attention to the latter she 
 began to talk to Orsino. She took no trouble to conceal 
 ■what she felt and the impression grew upon Orsino that 
 Spicca would have gone away after a quarter of an hour, 
 if he had not either possessed a sort of right to stay or 
 if he had not had some important object in view in re- 
 maining. 
 
 " I suppose there is nothing to do in Eome at this time 
 of year," she said. 
 
 Orsino told her that there was absolutely nothing to 
 do. Kot a theatre was open, not a friend was in town. 
 Eome was a wilderness. Eome was an amphitheatre on 
 a day when there was no performance, when the lions 
 were asleep, the gladiators drinking, and the martyrs 
 unoccupied. He tried to say something amusing and 
 found it hard. 
 
 Spicca was very patient, but evidently determined to 
 outstay Orsino. From time to time he made a remark, 
 to which Maria Consuelo paid very little attention if she 
 took any notice of it at all. Orsino could not make up 
 his mind whether to stay or to go. The latter course 
 would evidently displease Maria Consuelo, whereas by 
 remaining he was clearly annoying Spicca and was per- 
 haps causing him pain. It was a nice question, and while 
 trying to make conversation he weighed the arguments in 
 his mind. Strange to say he decided in favour of Spicca. 
 The decision was to some extent an index of the state of 
 his feelings towards Madame d' Aranjuez. If he had been 
 quite in love with her, he would have stayed. If he had 
 wished to make her love him, he would have stayed also. 
 As it was^his friendship for the old count went before 
 other considerations. " - At the same time he hoped to 
 manage matters so as not to iduur Maria Consuelo's dis- 
 pleasure. He found it harder than he had expected. 
 After he had made up his mind, he continued to talk 
 during three or four minutes and then made his excuse. 
 
 " I must be going," he said quietly. " I have a number 
 of things to do before night, and I must see Contini in 
 
DON ORSINO. 289 
 
 order to give him time to make a list of apartments for 
 you to see to-morrow." 
 
 He took his hat and rose. He was not prepared for 
 Maria Consuelo's answer. 
 
 "I asked you to stay," she said, coldly and very dis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 Spicca did not allow his expression to change. Orsino 
 stared at her. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Madame, but there are many reasons 
 which oblige me to disobey you." 
 
 Maria Consuelo bit her lip and her eyes gleamed an- 
 grily. She glanced at Spicca as though hoping that he 
 would go away with Orsino. But he did not move. It 
 was more and more clear that he had a right to stay if he 
 pleased. Orsino was already bowing before her. In- 
 stead of giving her hand she rose quickly and led him 
 towards the door. He opened it and they stood together 
 on the threshold. 
 
 "Is this the way you help me?" she asked, almost 
 fiercely, though in a whisper. 
 
 "Why do you receive him at all? " he inquired, instead 
 of answering. 
 
 "Because I cannot refuse." 
 
 "But you might send him away?" 
 
 She hesitated, and looked into his eyes. 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 "If you wish to be alone — and if you can. It is no 
 affair of mine." 
 
 She turned swiftly, leaving Orsino standing in the 
 door and went to Spicca's side. He had risen when she 
 rose and was standing at the other side of the room, 
 watching. 
 
 " I have a bad headache," she said coldly. " You will 
 forgive me if I ask you to go with Don Orsino." 
 
 "A lady's invitation to leave her house, Madame, is 
 the only one which a man cannot refuse," said Spicca 
 gravely. 
 
 He bowed and followed Orsino out of the room, clositig 
 
290 DON OESINO. 
 
 the door behind him. The scene had produced a very 
 disagreeable impression upon Orsino. Had he not known 
 the worst part of the secret and consequently understood 
 what good cause Maria Consuelo had for not wishing to 
 be alone with Spicca, he would have been utterly revolted 
 and for ever repelled by her brutality. No other word 
 could express adequately her conduct towards the count. 
 Even knowing what he did, he wished that she had con- 
 trolled her temper better and he was more than ever sorry 
 for Spicca. It did not even cross his mind that the latter 
 might have intentionally provoked Aranjuez and killed 
 him purposely. He felt somehow that Spicca was in a 
 measure the injured party and must have been in that 
 position from the beginning, whatever the strange story 
 might be. As the two descended the steps together 
 Orsino glanced at his companion's pale, drawn features 
 and was sure that the man was to be pitied. It was 
 almost a womanly instinct, far too delicate for such a 
 hardy nature, and dependent perhaps upon that sudden 
 opening of his sympathies which resulted from meeting 
 Maria Consuelo. I think that, on the whole, in such 
 cases, though the woman's character may be formed 
 by intimacy with man's, with apparent results, the 
 impression upon the man is momentarily deeper, as 
 the woman's gentler instincts are in a way reflected in 
 his heart. 
 
 Spicca recovered himself quickly, however. He took 
 out his case and offered Orsino a cigarette. 
 
 "So you have renewed your acquaintance," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "Yes — under rather odd circumstances," answered 
 Orsino. " I feel as though I owed you an apology. Count, 
 and yet I do not see what there is to apologise for. I tried 
 to go away more than once." 
 
 " You cannot possibly make excuses to me for Madame 
 d'Aranjuez's peculiarities, my friend. Besides, I admit 
 that she has a right to treat me as she pleases. That 
 does not prevent me from going to see her every day." 
 
DON OESINO. 291 
 
 " You must have strong reasons for bearing such treat- 
 ment." 
 
 "I have," answered Spicca thoughtfully and sadly. 
 " Very strong reasons. I will tell you one of those which 
 brought me to-day. I wished to see you two together." 
 
 Orsino stopped in his walk, after the manner of Ital- 
 ians, and he looked at Spicca. He was hot tempered 
 when provoked, and he might have resented the speech 
 if it had come from any other man. But he spoke 
 quietly. 
 
 "Why do you wish to see us together? " he asked. 
 
 "Because I am foolish enough to think sometimes that 
 you suit one another, and might love one another." 
 
 Probably nothing which Spicca could have said could 
 have surprised Orsino more than such a plain statement. 
 He grew suspicious at once, but Spicca' s look was that of 
 a man in earnest. 
 
 "I do not think I understand you," answered Orsino. 
 "But I think you are touching a subject which is better 
 left alone." 
 
 " I think not, " returned Spicca unmoved. 
 
 " Then let us agree to differ, " said Orsino a little more 
 warmly. 
 
 " We cannot do that. I am in a position to make you 
 agree with me, and I will. I am responsible for that 
 lady's happiness. I am responsible before God and 
 man." 
 
 Something in the words made a deep impression upon 
 Orsino. He had never heard Spicca use anything ap- 
 proaching to solemn language before. He knew at least 
 one part of the meaning which showed Spicca's remorse 
 for having killed Aranjuez, and he knew that the old man 
 meant what he said, and meant it from his heart. 
 
 " Do you understand me now? " asked Spicca, slowly 
 inhaling the smoke of his cigarette. 
 
 "Not alltogether. If you desire the happiness of 
 Madame d' Aranjuez why do you wish us to fall in love 
 with each other? It strikes me that " he stopped. 
 
292 DON OESiNO. 
 
 "Because I wish you would marry her." 
 
 " Marry her ! " Orsino had not thought of that, and 
 his words expressed a surprise which was not calculated 
 to please Spicca. 
 
 The old man's weary eyes suddenly grew keen and fierce 
 and Orsino could hardly meet their look. Spicca's ner- 
 vous fingers seized the young man's tough arm and closed 
 upon it with surprising force. 
 
 " I would advise you to think of that possibility before 
 making any more visits, " he said, his weak voice sud- 
 denly clearing. " We were talking together a few weeks 
 ago. Do you remember what I said I would do to any 
 man by whom harm comes to her? Yes, you remember 
 well enough. I know what you answered, and I daresay 
 you meant it. But I was in earnest, too." 
 
 "I think you are threatening me, Count Spicca," said 
 Orsino, flushing slowly but meeting the other's look with 
 unflinching coolness. 
 
 " No. I am not. And I will not let you quarrel with 
 .me, either, Orsino. I have a right to say this to you 
 where she is concerned — a right you do not dream of. 
 You cannot quarrel about that." 
 
 Orsino did not answer at once. He saw that Spicca was 
 very much in earnest, and was surprised that his manner 
 now should be less calm and collected than on the occa- 
 sion of their previous conversation, when the count had 
 taken enough wine to turn the heads of most men. He 
 did not doubt in the least the statement Spicca made. It 
 agreed exactly with what Maria Oonsuelo herself had 
 said of him. And the statement certainly changed the 
 face of the situation. Orsino admitted to himself that 
 he had never before thought of marrying Madame d' Aran- 
 juez. He had not even taken into consideration the con- 
 sequences of loving her and of being loved by her in 
 return. The moment he thought of a possible marriage 
 as the result of such a mutual attachment, he realised the 
 enormous difficulties which stood in the way of such a 
 union, and his first impulse was to give up visiting her 
 
DON oRsmo. 293 
 
 altogether. What Spicca said was at once reasonable 
 and unreasonable. Maria Consuelo's husband was dead, 
 and she doubtless expected to marry again. Orsino had 
 no right to stand in the way of others who might present 
 themselves as suitors. But it was beyond belief that 
 Spicca should expect Orsino to marry her himself, know- 
 ing Eome and the Eomans as he did. 
 
 " The two had been standing still in the shade. Orsino 
 began to walk forward again before he spoke. Something 
 in his own reflexions shocked him. He did not like to 
 think that an impassable social barrier existed between 
 Maria Consuelo and himself. Yet, in his total ignorance 
 of her origin and previous life the stories which had been 
 circulated about her recalled themselves with unpleasant 
 distinctness. Nothing that Spicca had said when they 
 had dined together had made the matter any clearer, 
 though the assurance that the deceased Aranjuez had 
 come to his end by Spicca' s instrumentality sufiiciently 
 contradicted the worst, if also the least credible, point in 
 the tales which had been repeated by the gossips early in 
 the previous winter. All the rest belonged entirely to 
 the category of the unknown. Yet Spicca spoke seriously 
 of a possible marriage and had gone to the length of wish- 
 ing that it might be brought about. At last Orsino 
 spoke. 
 
 " You say that you have a right to say what you have 
 said, " he began. " In that case I think I have a right to 
 ask a question which you ought to answer. You talk of 
 my marrying Madame d' Aranjuez. You ought^to tell me 
 whether that is possible." 
 
 "Possible?" cried Spicca almost angrily. "What do 
 you mean? " 
 
 " I mean this. You know us all, as you know me. 
 You know the enormous prejudices in which we are 
 brought up. You know perfectly well that although I 
 am ready to laugh at some of them, there are others at 
 which I do not laugh. Yet you refused to tell me who 
 Madame d' Aranjuez was, when I asked you, the other 
 
294 DON OESINO. 
 
 day. I do not even know her father's name, much less 
 her mother's " 
 
 "No," answered Spicca. "That is quite true, and I 
 see no necessity for telling you either. But, as you say, 
 you have some right to ask. I will tell you this much. 
 There is nothing in Jbhe circumstances of her birth which 
 could hinder her marriage into any honourable family. 
 Does that satisfy you? " 
 
 Orsino saw that whether he were satisfied or not he 
 was to get no further information for the present. He 
 might believe Spicca' s statement or not, as he pleased, 
 but he knew that whatever the peculiarities of the melan- 
 choly old duellist's character might be, he never took the 
 trouble to invent a falsehood and was as ready as ever to 
 support his. words. On this occasion no one could have 
 doubted him, for there was an unusual ring of sincere 
 feeling in what he said. Orsino could not help wonder- 
 ing what the tie between him and Madame d'Aranjuez 
 could be, for it evidently had the power to make Spicca 
 submit without complaint to something worse than or- 
 dinary unkindness and to make him defend on all occa- 
 sions the name and character of the woman who treated 
 him so harshly. It must be a very close bond, Orsino 
 thought. Spicca acted very much like a man who loves 
 very sincerely and quite hopelessly. There was some- 
 thing very sad in the idea that he perhaps loved Maria 
 Consuelo, at his age, broken down as he was, and x)ld 
 before his time. The contrast between them was so great 
 that it must have been grotesque if it had not been 
 pathetic. 
 
 Little more passed between the two men on that day, 
 before they separated. To Spicca, Orsino seemed indif- 
 ferent, and the older man's reticence after his sudden 
 outburst did not tend to prolong the meeting. 
 
 Orsino went in search of Contini and explained what 
 was needed of him. He was to make a brief list of 
 desirable apartments to let and was to accompany 
 Madame d'Aranjuez on the following morning in order 
 to see them. 
 
DON ORSINO. 295 
 
 Contini was delighted and set out about the work at 
 once. Perhaps he secretly hoped that the lady might be 
 induced to take a part of one of the new houses, but the 
 idea had nothing to do with his satisfaction. He was to 
 spend several hours in the sole society of a lady, of a 
 genuine lady who was, moreover, young and beautiful. 
 He read the little morning paper too assiduously not to 
 have noticed the name and pondered over the descriptions 
 of Madame d'Aranjuez on the many occasions when she 
 had been mentioned by the reporters during the previous 
 year. He was too young and too thoroughly Italian not 
 to appreciate the good fortune which now fell into his 
 way, and he promised himself a morning of uninter- 
 rupted enjoyment. He wondered whether the lady could 
 be induced by excessive fatigue and thirst to accept a 
 water ice at Ifazzari's, and he planned his list of apart- 
 ments in such a way as to bring her to the neighbourhood 
 of the Piazza di Spogna at an hour when the proposition 
 might seem most agreeable and natural. 
 
 Orsino stayed in the ofBce during the hot September 
 morning, busying himself with the endless details of 
 which he was now master, and thinking from time to time 
 of Maria Consuelo. He intended to go and see her in the 
 afternoon, and he, like Contini, planned what he should 
 do and say. But his plans were all unsatisfactory, and 
 once he found himself staring at the blank wall opposite 
 his table in a state of idle abstraction long unfamiliar to 
 him. 
 
 Soon after twelve o'clock, Contini came back, hot and 
 radiant. Maria Consuelo had refused the water ice, but 
 the charm of her manner had repaid the architect for the 
 disappointment. Orsino asked whether she had decided 
 upon any dwelling. 
 
 "She has taken the apartment in the Palazzo Bar- 
 berini," answered Contini. "I suppose she will bring 
 her family in the autumn." 
 
 "Her family? She has none. She is alone." 
 
 " Alone in that place ! How rich she must be ! " Con- 
 
296 DON ORSINO. 
 
 tini found the remains of a cigar somewhere and lighted 
 it thoughtfully. 
 
 "I do not know whether she is rich or not," said 
 Orsino. "I never thought about it." 
 
 He began to work at his books again, while Contini 
 sat down and fanned himself with a bundle of papers. 
 
 "She admires you very much, Don Orsino," said the 
 latter, after a pause. Orsino looked up sharply. 
 
 "What do you mean by that? " he asked. 
 
 " I mean that she talked of nothing but you, and in the 
 most flattering way." 
 
 In the oddly close intimacy which had grown up be- 
 tween the two men it did not seem strange that Orsino 
 should smile at speeches which he would not have liked 
 if they had come from any one but the poor architect. 
 
 "What did she say? " he asked with idle curiosity. 
 
 "She said it was wonderful to think what you had 
 done. That of all the Eoman princes you were the only 
 one who had energy and character enough to throw over 
 the old prejudices and take an occupation. That it was 
 all the more creditable because you had done it from 
 moral reasons and not out of necessity or love of money. 
 And she said a great many other things of the same 
 kind." 
 
 " Oh ! " ejaculated Orsino, looking at the wall opposite. 
 
 "It is a pity she is a widow," observed Contini. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "She would make such a beautiful princess." 
 
 " You must be mad, Contini ! " exclaimed Orsino, half- 
 pleased and half -irritated. " Do not talk of such follies." 
 
 " All well ! Torgive me," answered the architect a little 
 humbly. " I am not you, you know, and my head is not 
 yours — nor my name — nor my heart either." 
 
 Contini sighed, puffed at his cigar and took up some 
 papers. He was already a little in love with Maria Con- 
 suelo, and the idea that any man might marry her if he 
 pleased, but would not, was incomprehensible to him. 
 
 The day wore on. Orsino finished his work as thor- 
 
DON OKsmo. 297 
 
 oughly as though he had been a paid clerk, put every- 
 thing in order and went away. Late in the afternoon he 
 went to see Maria Consuelo. He knew that she would 
 usually be already out at that hour, and he fancied that 
 he was leaving something to chance in the matter of find- 
 ing her, though an unacknowledged instinct told him that 
 she would stay at home after the fatigue of the morning. 
 "We shall not be interrupted by Count Spicca to-day," 
 she said, as he sat down beside her. 
 
 In spite of what he knew, the hard tone of her voice 
 roused again in Orsino that feeling of pity for the old 
 man which he had felt on the previous day. 
 
 "Does it not seem to you," he asked, "that if you re- 
 ceive him at all, you might at least conceal something of 
 your hatred for him? " 
 
 "Why should I? Have you forgotten what I told you 
 yesterday?" 
 
 " It would be hard to forget that, though you told me 
 no details. But it is not easy to imagine how you can 
 see him at all if he killed your husband deliberately in 
 a duel." 
 
 " It is impossible to put the case more plainly ! " ex- 
 claimed Maria Consuelo. 
 "Do I offend you?" 
 "No. JSTot exactly." 
 
 " Forgive me, if I do. If Spicca, as I suppose, was the 
 unwilling cause of your great loss, he is much to be 
 pitied. I am not sure that he does not deserve almost as 
 much pity as you do." 
 
 "How can you say that — even if the rest were true?" 
 "Think of what he must suffer. He is devotedly 
 attached to you. " 
 
 "I know he is. You have told me that before, and I 
 have given you the same answer. I want neither his 
 attachment nor his devotion." 
 " Then refuse to see him. " 
 "I cannot." 
 "We come back to the game point again," said Orsino. 
 
298 DON OKSINO. 
 
 "We always shall, if you talk about this. There is no 
 other issue. Things are what they are and I cannot 
 change them." 
 
 "Do you know," said Orsino, "that all this mystery is 
 a very serious hindrance to friendship?" 
 
 Maria Consuelo was silent for a moment. 
 
 "Is it?" she asked presently. "Have you always 
 thought so?" 
 
 The question was a hard one to answer. 
 
 "You have always seemed mysterious to me," answered 
 Orsino. "Perhaps that is a great attraction. But in- 
 stead of learning the truth about you, I am finding out 
 that there are more and more secrets in your life which 
 I must not know." 
 
 "Why should you know them? " 
 
 " Because " Orsino checked himself, almost with 
 
 a start. 
 
 He was annoyed at the words which had been so near 
 his lips, for he had been on the point of saying " because 
 I love you " — and he was intimately convinced that he 
 did not love her. He could not in the least understand 
 why the phrase was so ready to be spoken. Could it be, 
 he asked himself, that Maria Consuelo was trying to 
 make him say the words, and that her will, with her 
 question, acted directly on his mind? He scouted the 
 thought as soon as it presented itself, not only for its 
 absurdity, but because it shocked some inner sensibility. 
 
 "What were you going to say?" asked Madame 
 d'Aranjuez almost carelessly. 
 
 "Something that is best not said," he answered. 
 
 "Then I am glad you did not say it." 
 
 She spoke quietly and unaffectedly. It needed little 
 divination on her part to guess what the words might 
 have been. Even if she wished them spoken, she would 
 not have them spoken too lightly, for she had heard his 
 love speeches before, when they had meant very little. 
 
 Orsino suddenly turned the subject, as though he felt 
 unsure of himself. He asked her about the result of her 
 
DON OEsmo. 299 
 
 search in the morning. She answered that she had de- 
 termined to take the apartment in the Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 "I believe it is a very large place," observed Orsino, 
 indifferently. 
 
 "Yes," she answered in the same tone. "I mean to 
 receive this winter. But it will be a tiresome affair to 
 furnish such a wilderness." 
 
 " I suppose you mean to establish yourself in Eome for 
 several years." His face expressed a satisfaction of 
 which he was hardly conscious himself. Maria Consuelo 
 noticed it. 
 
 "You seem pleased," she said. 
 
 "How could I possibly not be?" he asked. 
 
 Then he was silent. All his own words seemed to him 
 to mean too much or too little. He wished she would 
 choose some subject of conversation and talk that he 
 might listen. But she also was unusually silent. 
 
 He cut his visit short, very suddenly, and left her, say- 
 ing that he hoped to find her at home as a general rule at 
 that hour, quite forgetting that she would naturally be 
 always out at the cool time towards evening. 
 
 He walked slowly homewards in the dusk, and did not 
 remember to go to his solitary dinner until nearly nine 
 o'clock. He was not pleased with himself, but he was 
 involuntarily pleased by something he felt and would not 
 have been insensible to if he had been given the choice. 
 His old interest in Maria Consuelo was reviving, and yet 
 was turning into something very different from what it 
 had been. 
 
 He now boldly denied to himself that he was in love 
 and forced himself to speculate concerning the possibili- 
 ties of friendship. In his young system, it was absurd 
 to suppose that a man could fall in love a second time 
 with the same woman. He scoffed at himself, at the idea 
 and at his own folly, having all the time a consciousness 
 amounting to certainty, of something very real and 
 serious, by no means to be laughed at, overlooked nor 
 despised. 
 
300 DON OKsmo. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 It was to be foreseen that Orsino and Maria Censuelo 
 •would see each other more often and more intimately now 
 than ever before. Apart from the strong mutual attrac- 
 tion which drew them nearer and nearer -together, there 
 were many new circumstances which rendered Orsino's 
 help almost indispensable to his friend. The details of her 
 installation in the apartment she had chosen were many, 
 there was much to be thought of and there were enormous 
 numbers of things to be bought, almost each needing 
 judgment and discrimination in the choice. Had the two 
 needed reasonable excuses for meeting very often they 
 had them ready to their hand. But neither of them were 
 under any illusion, and neither cared to affect that pecul- 
 iar form of self-forgiveness which finds good reasons 
 always for doing what is always pleasant. Orsino, in- 
 deed, never pressed his services and was careful not to be 
 seen too often in public with Maria Consuelo by the few 
 acquaintances who were in town. Nor did Madame 
 d'Aranjuez actually ask his help at every turn, any more 
 than she made any difllculty about accepting it. There 
 was a tacit understanding between them which did away 
 with all necessity for inventing excuses on the one hand, 
 or for the affectation of fearing to inconvenience Qrsino' 
 on the other. During some time, however, the subjects 
 which both knew to be dangerous were avoided, with an 
 unspoken mutual consent for which Maria Consuelo was 
 more grateful than for all the trouble Orsino was giving 
 himself on her account. She fancied, perhaps, that he 
 had at last accepted the situation, and his society gave 
 her too much happiness to allow of her asking whether 
 his discretion would or could last long. 
 
 It was an anomalous relation which bound them to- 
 gether, as is often the case at some period during the 
 development of a passion, and most often when the ab 
 
DON OESINO. 301 
 
 sence af obstacles makes the growth of affection slow and 
 regular. It was a period during which a new kind of 
 intimacy began to exist, as far removed from the half- 
 serious, half-jesting intercourse of earlier days as it was 
 from the ultimate happiness to which all those who love 
 look forward with equal trust, although few ever come 
 near it and fewer still can ever reach it quite. It was 
 outwardly a sort of frank comradeship which took a vast 
 deal for granted on both sides for the mere sake of escap- 
 ing analysis, a condition in which each understood all that 
 the other said, while neither quite knew what was in the 
 other's heart, a state in which both were pleased to dwell 
 for a time, as though preferring to prolong a sure if im- 
 perfect happiness rather than risk one moment of it for 
 the hope of winning a life-long joy. It was a time during 
 which mere friendship reached an artificially perfect 
 beauty, like a summer fruit grown under glass in winter, 
 which in thoroughly unnatural conditions attains a devel- 
 opment almost impossible even where unhelped nature is 
 most kind. Both knew, perhaps, that it could not last, 
 but neither wished it checked, and neither liked to think 
 of the moment when it must either begin to wither by 
 degrees, or be suddenly absorbed into a greater and more 
 dangerous growth. 
 
 At that time they were able to talk fluently upon the 
 nature of the human heart and the durability of great 
 affections. They propounded the problems of the world 
 and discussed them between the selection of a carpet and 
 the purchase of a table. They were ready at any moment 
 to turn from the deepest conversation to the consideration 
 of the merest detail, conscious that they could instantly 
 take up the thread of their talk. They could separate the 
 major proposition from the minor, and the deduction 
 from both, by a lively argument concerning the durability 
 of a stuff or the fitness of a piece of furniture, and they 
 came back each time with renewed and refreshed interest 
 to the consideration of matters little less grave than the 
 resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to 
 
302 DON OBSINO. 
 
 come. That their conclusions were not always logical 
 nor even very sensible has little to do with the matter. 
 On the contrary, the discovery of a flaw in their own 
 reasoning was itself a reason for opening the question 
 again at their next meeting. 
 
 At iirst their conversation was of general things, in- 
 cluding the desirability of glory for its own sake, the 
 immortality of the soul and the principles of architec- 
 ture. Orsino was often amazed to find himself talking, 
 and, as he fancied, talking well, upon subjects of which 
 he had hitherto supposed with some justice that he knew 
 nothing. By and by they fell upon literature and dis- 
 sected the modern novel with the keen zest of young 
 people who seek to learn the future secrets of their own 
 lives from vivid descriptions of the lives of others. 
 Their knowledge of the modern novel was not so limited 
 as their acquaintance with many other things less amus- 
 ing, if more profitable, and they worked the vein with 
 lively energy and mutual satisfaction. 
 
 Then, as always, came the important move. They 
 began to talk of love. The interest ceased to be objective 
 or in any way vicarious and was transferred directly to 
 themselves. 
 
 These steps are not, I think, to be ever thought of as 
 stages in the development of character in man or woman. 
 They are phases in the intercourse of man and woman. 
 Clever people know them well and know how to produce 
 them at will. The end may or may not be love, but an 
 end of some sort is inevitable. According to the persons 
 concerned, according to circjimstances, according to the 
 amount of available time, the progression from general 
 subjects to the discussi'on of love, with self -application 
 of the conclusions, more or less sincere, may occupy an 
 hour, a month or a year. Love is the one subject which 
 ultimately attracts those not too old to talk about it, and 
 those who consider that they have reached such an age are 
 few. 
 
 In the case of Orsino and Maria Consuelo, neither of 
 
DON OBSINO. 303 
 
 the two was making any effort to lead up to a certain 
 definite result, for both felt a real dread of reaching that 
 point which is ever afterwards remembered as the last 
 moment of hardly sustained friendship and the first of 
 something stronger and too often less happy. Orsino 
 was inexperienced, but Maria Consuelo was quite con- 
 scious of the tendency in a fixed direction. Whether she 
 had made up her mind, or not, she tried as skilfully as 
 she could to retard the movement, for she was very 
 happy in the present and probably feared the first stir- 
 ring of her own ardently passionate nature. 
 
 As for Orsino, indeed, his inexperience was relative. 
 He was anxious to believe that he was only her friend, 
 and pretended to his own conscience that he could not 
 explain the frequency with which the words " I love you " 
 presented themselves. The desire to speak them was 
 neither a permanent impulse of which he was always 
 conscious nor a sudden strong emotion like a temptation, 
 giving warning of itself by a few heart-beats before it 
 reached its strength. The words came to his lips so 
 naturally and unexpectedly that he often wondered how 
 he saved himself from pronouncing them. It was impos- 
 sible for him to foresee when they would crave utterance. 
 At last he began to fancy that they rang in his mind 
 without a reason and without a wish on his part to speak 
 them, as a perfectly indifferent tune will ring in the ear 
 for days so that one cannot get rid of it. 
 
 Maria Consuelo had not intended to spend September 
 and October altogether in Eome. She had supposed that 
 it would be enough to choose her apartment and give 
 orders to some person about the furnishing of it to her 
 taste, and- that after that she might go to the seaside until 
 the heat should be over, coming up to the city from time 
 to time as occasion required. But she seemed to have 
 changed her mind. She did not even suggest the possi- 
 bility of going away. 
 
 She generally saw Orsino in the afternoon. He found 
 no.diflELculty in making time to see her, whenever he could 
 
304 DON ORSINO. 
 
 be useful, but his own business naturally occupied all 
 the earlier part of the day. ' As a rule, therefore, he 
 called between half -past four and five, and so soon as it 
 was cool enough they went together to the Palazzo Bar- 
 berini to see what progress the upholsterers were making 
 and to consider matters of taste. The great half-fur- 
 nished rooms with the big windows overlooking the little 
 garden before the palace were pleasant to sit in and wan- 
 der in during the hot September afternoons. The pair 
 were not often c[uite alone, even for a quarter of an hour, 
 the place being full of workmen who came and went, 
 passed and repassed, as their occupations required, often 
 asking for orders and probably needing more supervision 
 than Maria Consuelo bestowed upon them. 
 
 On a certain evening late in September the two were 
 together in the large drawing-room. Maria Consuelo was 
 tired and was leaning back in a deep seat, her hands 
 folded upon her knee, watching Orsino as he slowly paced 
 the carpet, crossing and recrossing in his short walk, his 
 face constantly turned towards her. It was excessively 
 hot. The air was sultry with thunder, and though it was 
 past five o'clock the windows were still closely shut to 
 keep out the heat. A clear, soft light filled the room, 
 not reflected from a burning pavement, but from grass and 
 plashing water. 
 
 They had been talking of a chimneypiece which Maria 
 Consuelo wished to have placed in the hall. The style 
 of what she wanted suggested the sixteenth century, 
 Henry Second of Prance, Diana of Poitiers and the dura- 
 bility of the affections. The transition from fireplaces to 
 true love had been accomplished with comparative ease, 
 the result of daily practice and experience. It is worth 
 noting, for the benefit of the young, that furniture is afi 
 excellent subject for conversation for that very reason, 
 nothing being simpler than to go in three minutes from a 
 table to an epoch, from an epoch to an historical person 
 and from that person to his or her love story. A young 
 man would do well to associate the life of some famous 
 
Doisr ORSiNo. 305 
 
 lover or celebrated and unhappy beauty with each style 
 of woodwork and upholstery. It is always convenient. 
 But if he has not the necessary preliminary knowledge 
 he may resort to a stratagem. 
 
 "What a comfortable chair!" says he, as he deposits 
 his hat on the floor and sits down. 
 
 "Do you like comfortable chairs?" 
 
 "Of course. Fancy what life was in the days of stiff 
 wooden seats, when you had to carry a cushion about 
 with you. You know that sort of thing — twelfth cen- 
 tury, Francesca da Eimini and all that." 
 
 "Poor Francesca! " 
 
 If she does not say "Poor Francesca! " as she probably 
 will, you can say it yourself, very feelingly and in a 
 different tone, after a short pause. The one kiss which 
 cost- two lives makes the story particularly useful. And 
 then the ice is broken. If Paolo and Francesca had not 
 been murdered, would they have loved each other for 
 ever? As nobody knows what they would have done, 
 you can assert that they would have been faithful or not, 
 according to your taste, humour or personal intentions. 
 Then you can talk about the husband, whose very hasty 
 conduct contributed so materially to the shortness of the 
 story. If you wish to be thought jealous, you say he 
 was quite right; if you desire to seem generous, you say 
 with equal conviction that he was quite wrong. And so 
 forth. Get to generalities as soon as possible in order to 
 apply them to your own case. 
 
 Orsino and Maria Consuelo were the guileless victims 
 of furniture, neither of them being acquainted with the 
 method just set forth for the instruction of the innocent. 
 They fell into their own trap and wondered how they had 
 got from mantelpieces to hearts in such an incredibly 
 short time. 
 
 " It is quite possible to love twice, " Orsino was saying. 
 
 "That depends upon what you mean by love, " answered 
 Maria Consuelo, watching him with half-closed eyes. 
 
 Orsino laughed. 
 
306 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "What I mean by love? I suppose I mean very much 
 what other people mean by it — or a little more," he 
 added, and the slight change in his voice pleased her. 
 
 " Do you think that any two understand the same thing 
 when they speak of love?" she asked. 
 
 "We two might," he answered, resuming his indif- 
 ferent tone. " After all, we have talked so much together 
 during the last month that we ought to understand each 
 other." 
 
 "Yes," said Maria Consuelo. "And I think we do," 
 she added thoughtfully. 
 
 " Then why should we think differently about the same 
 thing? But I am not going to try and define love. It is 
 not easily defined, and I am not clever enough." He 
 laughed again. " There are many illnesses which I can- 
 not define — but I know that one may have them twice." 
 
 " There are othets which one can only have once — dan- 
 gerous ones, too." 
 
 " I know it. But that has nothing to do with the ar- 
 gument." 
 
 "I think it has — if this is an argument at all." 
 
 " No. Love is not enough like an illness— it is quite 
 the contrary. It is a recovery from an unnatural state — 
 that of not loving. One may fall into that state and re- 
 cover from it more than once." 
 
 " What a sophism ! " 
 
 "Why do you say that? Do you think that not to love 
 is the normal condition of mankind? " 
 
 Maria Consuelo was silent, still watching him. 
 
 "You have nothing to say," he continued, stopping 
 and standing before her. " There is nothing to be said. 
 A man or woman who does not love is in an abnormal 
 state. When he or she falls in love it is a recovery. One 
 may recover so long as the heart has enough vitality. 
 Admit it — for you must. It proves that any properly 
 constituted person may love twice, at least." 
 
 "There is an idea of faithlessness in it, nevertheless," 
 said Ma3?ia Consuelo, thoughtfully. "Or if it is not 
 
Doisr OESiNO. 307 
 
 faithless, it is fickle. It is not the same to oneself to 
 love twice. One respects oneself less." 
 
 "I cannot believe that." 
 
 " We all ought to believe it. Take a case as an in- 
 stance. A woman loves a man with all her heart, to the 
 point of sacrificing very much for him. He loves her in 
 the same way. In spite of the strongest opposition, they 
 agree to be married. On the very day of the marriage 
 he is taken from her — for ever — loving her as he has 
 always loved her, and as he would always have loved her 
 had he lived. What would such a woman feel, if she 
 found herself forgetting such a love as that after two or 
 three years, for another man? Do you think she would 
 respect herself more or less? Do you think she would 
 have the right to call herself a faithful woman? " 
 
 Orsino was silent for a moment, seeing that she meant 
 herself by the example. She, indeed, had only told him 
 that her husband had been killed, but Spicca had once 
 said of her that she had been married to a man who had 
 never been her husband. 
 
 "A memory is one thing — real life is quite another," 
 said Orsino at last, resuming his walk. 
 
 " And to be faithful cannot possibly mean to be faith- 
 less," answered Maria Consuelo in a low voice. 
 
 She rose and went to one of the windows. She must 
 have wished to hide her face, for the outer blinds and 
 the glass casement were both shut and she could see 
 nothing but the green light that struck the painted wood. 
 Orsino went to her side. 
 
 " Shall I open the window? " he asked in a constrained 
 voice. 
 
 "2fo — not yet. I thought I could see out." 
 
 Still she stood where she was, her face almost touching 
 the pane, one small white hand resting upon the glass, 
 the fingers moving restlessly. 
 
 " You meant yourself, just now, " said Orsino softly. 
 
 She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale. 
 Then he fancied that there was a hardly perceptible 
 
308 DON OESINO. 
 
 movement of her head, the merest shade of an inclina- 
 tion. He leaned a little towards her, resting against the 
 marble sill of the -window. 
 
 "And you meant something more " he began to 
 
 say. Then he stopped short. 
 
 His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed 
 in his temples, his lips closed tightly and his breathing 
 was audible. 
 
 Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him 
 quickly and instantly looked back at the smooth glass 
 before her and at the green light on the shutters with- 
 out. He was scarcely conscious that she had moved. In 
 love, as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a 
 few moments. 
 
 "You meant that you might still " Again he 
 
 stopped. The words would not come. 
 
 He fancied that she would not speak. She could not, 
 any more than she could have left his side at that moment. 
 The air was very sultry even in the cool, closed room. 
 The green light on the shutters darkened suddenly. Then 
 a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly over 
 the city. Still neither moved from the window. 
 
 "If you could " Orsino's voice was low and soft, 
 
 but there was something strangely overwrought in the 
 nervous quality of it. It was not hesitation any longer 
 that made him stop. 
 
 " Could you love me? " he asked. He thought he spoke 
 aloud. When he had spoken, he knew that he had whis- 
 pered the words. 
 
 His face was colourless. He heard a short, sharp 
 breath, drawn like a gasp. The small white hand fell 
 from the window and gripped his own with sudden, vio- 
 lent strength. Neither spoke. Another peal of thunder, 
 nearer and louder, shook the air. Then Orsino heard the 
 quick-drawn breath again, and the white hand went ner- 
 vously to the fastening of the window. Orsino opened 
 the casement and thrust back the blinds. There was a 
 vivid flash, more thunder, and a gust of stifling wind. 
 
DON OESINO. 309 
 
 Maria Consuelo leaned far out, looking up, and a few 
 great drops of rain began to fall. 
 
 The storm "burst and the cold rain poured down furi- 
 ously, wetting the two white faces at the window. Maria 
 Consuelo drew back a little, and Orsino leaned against 
 the open casement, watching her. It was as though the 
 single pressure of their hands had crushed out the power 
 of speech for a time. 
 
 Tor weeks they had talked daily together during many 
 hours. They could not foresee that at the great moment 
 there would be nothing left for them to say. The rain 
 fell in torrents and the gusty wind- rose and buffeted the 
 face of the great palace with roaring strength, to sink 
 very suddenly an instant later in the steadily rushing 
 noise of the water, springing up again without warning, 
 rising and falling, falling and rising, like a great sob- 
 bing breath. The wind and the rain seemed to hp speak- 
 ing for the two who listened to it. 
 
 Orsino watched Maria Consuelo's face, not scrutinising 
 it, nor realising yery much whether it were beautiful or 
 not, nor trying to read the thoughts that were half ex- 
 pressed in it — not thinking at all, indeed, but only loving 
 it wholly and in every part for the sake of the woman 
 herself, as he had never dreamed of loving any one or 
 anything. 
 
 At last Maria Consuelo turned very slowly and looked 
 into his eyes. The passionate sadness faded out of the 
 features, the faint colour rose again, the full lips relaxed, 
 the smile that came was full of a happiness that seemed 
 almost divine. 
 
 "I cannot help it," she said. 
 
 "Can I?" 
 
 "Truly?" 
 
 Her hand was lying on the marble ledge. Orsino laid 
 his own upon it, and both trembled a little. She under- 
 stood more than any word could have told her. 
 
 "For how long?" she asked. 
 
 "For all our lives now, and for all our life hereafter." 
 
310 DON OESINO. 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips, bending his head, and 
 then he drew her from the window, and they walked 
 slowly up and down the great_room. 
 
 " It is very strange," she said presently, in a low voice. 
 
 " That I should love you? " 
 
 "Yes. Where were we an hour ago? What is become 
 of that old time — that was an hour ago?" 
 
 "I have forgotten, dear — that was in the other life." 
 
 "The other life! Yes — how unhappy I was — there, 
 by that window, a hundred years ago ! " 
 
 She laughed softly, and Orsino smiled as he looked 
 down at her. 
 
 " Are you happy now? " 
 
 " Do not ask me — how could I tell you? " 
 
 " Say it to yourself, love — I shall see it in your dear 
 face." 
 
 "Am I not saying it?" 
 
 Then they were silent again, walking side by side, 
 their arms locked and pressing one another. 
 
 It began to dawn upon Orsino that a great change had 
 come into his life, and he thought of the consequences of 
 what he was doing. He had not said that he was happy, 
 but in the first moment he had felt it more than she. 
 The future, however, would not be like the present, and 
 could not be a perpetual continuation of it. Orsino was 
 not at all of a romantic disposition, and the practical side 
 of things was always sure to present itself to his mind 
 very early in any affair. It was a part of his nature and 
 by no means hindered him from feeling deeply and loving 
 sincerely. But it shortened his moments of happiness. 
 
 "Do you know what this means to you and me?" he 
 agked, after a time. ^ 
 
 Maria Consuelo started ver;^lightly and looked up at 
 him. 
 
 "Let us think of to-morrow — to-morrow," she said. 
 Her' voice trembled a little. 
 
 "Is it so hard to think of?" asked Orsino, fearing lest 
 he had displeased her. 
 
DON OESINO. 311 
 
 "Very hard," she answered, in a low voice. 
 
 "Not for me. Why should it be? If anything can 
 make to-day more complete, it is to think that to-morrow 
 will be more perfect, and the next day still more, and so 
 on, each day better than the one before it." 
 
 Maria Consuelo shook her head. 
 
 "Do not speak of it," she said. 
 
 "Will you not love me to-morrow?" Orsino asked. 
 The light in his face told how little earnestly he asked 
 the q[uestion, but she turned upon him quickly. 
 
 "Do you doubt yourself, that you should doubt me?" 
 There was a ring of terror in the words that startled him 
 as he heard them. 
 
 "Beloved — no — how can you think I meant it?" 
 
 "Then do not say it." She shivered a little, and bent 
 down her head. 
 
 " No — I will not. But — dear — do you know where we 
 are?" 
 
 "Where we are?" she repeated, not understanding. 
 
 "Yes — where we are. This was to have been your 
 home this year." 
 
 "Was to have been?" A frightened look came into 
 her face. 
 
 " It will not be, now. Your home is not in this house." 
 
 Again she shook her head, turning her face away. 
 
 "It must be," she said. 
 
 Orsino was surprised beyond expression by the answer. 
 
 " Either you do not know what you are "saying, or you 
 do not mean it, dear," he said. "Or else you will not 
 understand me." 
 
 "I understand you too well." 
 
 Orsino made her stop and took both her hands, looking 
 down into her eyes. 
 
 "You will marry me," he said. 
 
 " I cannot marry you, " she answered. 
 
 Her face grew even paler than it had been when they 
 had stood at the window, and so full of pain and sadness 
 that it hurt Orsino to look at it. But the words she 
 
312 DOK oEsnsro. 
 
 spoke, in her clear, distinct tones, struck him like a blow 
 unawares. He knew that she loved him, for her love was 
 in every look and gesture, without attempt at conceal- 
 ment. He believed her to be a good woman. He was 
 certain that her husband was dead. He could not under- 
 stand, and he grew suddenly angry. An older man would 
 have done worse, or a man less in earnest. 
 
 " You must have a reason to give me — and a good one," 
 he said gravely. 
 
 "I have." 
 
 She turned slowly away and began to walk alone. He 
 followed her. 
 
 "You must tell it," he said. 
 
 "Tell it? Yes, I will tell it to you. It is a solemn 
 promise before God, given to a man who died in my arms 
 — to my husband. Would you have me break such a 
 vow?" 
 
 "Yes." Orsino drew a long breath. The objection 
 seemed insignificant enough compared with the pain it 
 had cost him before it had been explained. 
 
 " Such promises are not binding," he continued, after 
 a moment's pause. " Such a promise is made hastily, 
 rashly, without a thought of the consequences. You 
 have no right to keep it." 
 
 "No right? Orsino, what are you saying! Is not an 
 oath an oath, however it is taken? Is not a vow made 
 ten times more sacred when the one for whom it was taken 
 is gone? Is there any difference between my promise 
 and that made before the altar by a woman who gives up 
 the world? Should I be any better, if I broke mine, 
 than the nun who broke hers?" 
 
 "You cannot be in earnest?" exclaimed Orsino in a 
 low voice. 
 
 Maria Consuelo did not answer. She went towards the 
 window and looked at the splashing rain. Orsino stood 
 where he was, watching her. Suddenly she came back 
 and stood before him. 
 
 "We must undo this," she said. 
 
DON OKSINO. 313 
 
 "What do you mean? " He understood well enough. 
 
 " You know. We must not love each other. We must 
 undo to-day and forget it." 
 
 " If you can talk so lightly of forgetting, you have little 
 to remember," answered Orsino almost roughly. 
 
 "You have no right to say that." 
 
 "I have the right of a man who loves you." 
 
 " The right to be unjust? " 
 
 " I am not unjust. " His tone softened again. " I know 
 what it means, to say that I love you — it is my life, this 
 love. I have known it a long time. It has been on 
 my lips to say it for weeks, and since it has been 
 said, it cannot be unsaid. A moment ago you told 
 me not to doubt you. I do not. And now you say 
 that we must not love each other, as though we had a 
 choice to make — and why? Because you once made a 
 rash promise " 
 
 "Hush!" interrupted Maria Consuelo. "You must 
 not " 
 
 " I must and will. You made a promise, as though you 
 had a right at such a moment to dispose of all your life 
 — I do not speak of mine — as though you could know 
 what the world held for you, and could renounce it all 
 beforehand. I tell you you had no right to make such 
 an oath, and a vow taken without the right to take it is 
 no vow at all " 
 
 " It is — it is ! I cannot break it ! " 
 
 " If you love me you will. But you say we are to for- 
 get. Forget ! It is so easy to say. How shall we do 
 it?" 
 
 " I will go away " 
 
 " If you have the heart to go away, then go. But I 
 will follow you. The world is very small, they say — it 
 will not be hard for me to find you, wherever you are." 
 
 "If I beg you — if I ask it as the only kindness, the 
 only act of friendship, the only proof of your love — you 
 will not come — ^you will not do that " 
 
 "I will, if it costs your soul and mine." 
 
314 DON OKSINO. 
 
 " Orsino! You do not mean it — you see how unhappy 
 I am, how I am trying to do right, how hard it is ! " 
 
 " I see that you are trying to ruin- both our lives. I 
 will not let you. Besides, you do not mean it." 
 
 Maria Consuelo looked into his eyes and her own grew 
 deep and dark. Then as though she felt herself yielding, 
 she turned away and sat down in a chair that stood apart 
 from the rest. Orsino followed her, and tried to take 
 her hand, bending down to meet her downcast glance. 
 
 "You do not mean it, Consuelo," he said earnestly. 
 "You do not mean one hundredth part of what you 
 say." 
 
 She drew her fingers from his, and turned her head 
 sideways against the back of the chair so that she could 
 not see him. He still bent over her, whispering into her 
 ear. 
 
 "You cannot go," he said. "You will not try to foT- 
 get — for neither you nor I can — nor ought, cost what it 
 might. You will not destroy what is so much to us — 
 you would not, if you could. Look at me, love — do not 
 turn away. Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth 
 of it and of every word I say." 
 
 Still she turned her face from him. But she breathed 
 quickly with parted lips and the colour rose slowly in her 
 pale cheeks. 
 
 "It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear," he 
 said, bending still lower and closer to her. " It must be 
 some happiness to know that you are so loved. Is there 
 so much joy in your life that you can despise this ? There 
 is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we 
 are always together — always, dear, always, always." 
 
 She moved a little, and the drooping lids lifted almost 
 imperceptibly. 
 
 "Do not tempt me, dear one," she said in a faint voice. 
 "Let me go — let me go." 
 
 Orsino's dark face was close to hers now, and she could 
 see his bright eyes. Once she tried to look away, and 
 could not. Again she tried, lifting her head from the 
 
DON OKSINO. 315 
 
 cushioned chair. But his arm went round her neck and 
 her cheek rested upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Go, love," he said softly, pressing her more closely. 
 " Go — let us not love each other. It is so easy not to 
 love." 
 
 She looked up into his eyes again with a sudden shiver, 
 and they both grew very pale. For ten seconds neither 
 spoke nor moved. Then their lips met. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 When Orsino was alone that night, he asked himself 
 more than one question which he did not find it easy to 
 answer. He could define, indeed, the relation in which 
 he now stood to Maria Consuelo, for though she had ul- 
 timately refused to speak the words of a promise, he no 
 longer doubted that she meant to be his wife and that her 
 scruples were overcome for ever. This was, undeniably, 
 the most important point in the whole affair, so far as his 
 own satisfaction was concerned, but there were others of 
 the gravest import to be considered and elucidated before 
 he could even weigh the probabilities of future happiness. 
 
 He had not lost his head on the present occasion, as he 
 had formerly done when his passion had been anything 
 but sincere. He was perfectly conscious that Maria 
 Consuelo was now the principal person concerned in his 
 life and that the moment would inevitably have come, 
 sooner or later, in which he must have told her so as he 
 had done on this day. He had not yielded to a sudden 
 -impulse, but to a steady and growing pressure from which 
 there had been no means of escape, and which he had 
 not sought to elude. He was not in one of those moods 
 of half-senseless, exuberant spirits, such as had come 
 upon him more than once during the winter after he had 
 been an hour in her society and had said or done some- 
 
316 DON OKSINO. 
 
 thing more than usually rash. On the contrary, lie was 
 inclined to look the whole situation soberly in the face, 
 and to doubt whether the love which dominated him 
 might not prove a source of unhappiness to Maria Con- 
 suelo as well as to himself. At the same" time he knew 
 that it would be useless to fight against that domination, 
 for he knew that he was now absolutely sincere. 
 
 But the diflculties to be met and overcome were many 
 and great. He might have betrothed himself to almost 
 any woman in society, widow or spinster, without antici- 
 pating one hundredth part of the opposition which he 
 ' must now certainly encounter. He was not even angry 
 beforehand with the prejudice which would animate his 
 father and mother, for he admitted that it was hardly a 
 prejudice at all, and certainly not one peculiar to them, 
 or to their class. It would be hard to find a family, any- 
 where, of any respectability, no matter how modest, that 
 would accept without question such a choice as he had 
 made. Maria Consuelo was one of those persons about 
 whom the world is ready to speak in disparagement, 
 knowing that it will not be easy to find defenders for 
 them. The world indeed, loves its own and treats them 
 with consideration, especially in the matter of passing 
 follies, and after it had been plain to society that Orsino 
 had fallen under Maria Consuelo's charm, he had heard 
 no more disagreeable remarks about her origin nor the 
 circumstances of her widowhood. But he remembered 
 what had been said before that, when he himself had lis- 
 tened indifferently enough, and he guessed that ill-natured 
 people called her an adventuress or little better. If any- 
 thing could have increased the suffering which this intui- 
 tive knowledge caused him, it was the fact that he 
 possessed no proof of her right to rank with the best, 
 except his own implicit faith in her, and the few words 
 Spicca had chosen to let fall. Spicca was still thought 
 so dangerous that people hesitated to contradict him 
 openly, but his mere assertion, Orsino- thought, though 
 it might be accepted in appearance, was not of enough 
 
DON OESINO. 317 
 
 weight to carry inward conviction with it in the minds 
 of people who had no interest in being convinced. It 
 was only too plain that, unless Maria Consuelo, or Spicca, 
 or both, were willing to tell the strange story in its integ- 
 rity, there were not proof enough to convince the most 
 willing person of her right to the social position she oc- 
 cupied after that had once been called into question. 
 To Orsino's mind the very fact that it had been ques- 
 tioned at all demonstrated sufficiently a carelessness on 
 her own part which could only proceed from the certainty 
 of possessing that right beyond dispute. It would doubt- 
 less have been possible for her to provide herself from the 
 first with something in the nature of a guarantee for her 
 identity. She could surely have had the means, through 
 some friend of her own elsewhere, of making the ac- 
 quaintance of some one in society, who would have 
 vouched for her and silenced the carelessly spiteful talk 
 concerning her which had gone the rounds when she first 
 appeared. But she had seemed to be quite- indifferent. 
 She had refused Orsino's pressing offer to bring.b?V'is.t,b 
 relations with his mother, whose infliioiice would have 
 been enough to straighten a reputation far more doubtful 
 than Maria Consuelo'sj and she had almost wilfully 
 thrown herself into a, sort of intimacy withthe Countess 
 Del Ferice. 
 
 But OrsinOj, as he thought of these matters, saw how-^ 
 
 futile such arguments must seem to his own people, and 
 
 how absuMly inadequ0,te they were to better his own 
 
 state of -inind, since he needed no conviction himself but 
 
 sought ^he means of convincing others. One point alone 
 
 gave liim some hope. Under the existing laws the in- 
 
 evitajble legal marriage would require the production of 
 
 dooWments which would clear the whole story at once. 
 
 0- fi other hand, that fact could make Orsino's position 
 
 ^er with his father and mother until the papers 
 
 Nually produced. People cannot easily be married 
 
 ^ Rome, where the law requires the publication 
 
 Y posting them upon the doors of the Capitol, 
 
318 DON ORSESrO. 
 
 and the name of Orsino Saracinesca would not be easily 
 overlooked. Orsino was aware of course that he was not 
 in need of his parents' consent for his marriage, but he 
 had not been brought up in a way to look upon their ac- 
 quiescence as unnecessary. He was deeply attached to 
 them both, but especially to his mother who had been his 
 staunch friend in his efforts to do something for himself, 
 and to whom he naturally looked for sympathy if not for 
 actual help. However certain he might be of the ultimate 
 result of his marriage, the idea of being married in direct 
 opposition to her wishes was so repugnant to him as to 
 be almost an insurmountable barrier. He might, indeed, 
 and probably would, conceal his engagement for some 
 time, but solely with the intention of so preparing the 
 evidence in favour of it as to make it immediately accept- 
 able to his father and mother when announced. 
 
 It seemed possible that, if he could bring Maria Con- 
 suelo to see the matter as he saw it, she might at once 
 throw aside her reticence and furnish him with the 
 iuiuiisaiion he so greatly needed. But it would be a 
 delicate matter to bring her to that point of view, uncon- 
 scious as she must be of her equivocal position. He 
 could not go to her and tell her tbat in order to announce 
 their engagement he must be able to^ tell the world who 
 and what she really was. The most Ke could. do would 
 be to tell her exactly what papers were ne&essary for her 
 marriage and to prevail upon her to procure t&em as soon 
 as possible, or to hand them to him at once if tihey were 
 already in her possession. But in order to require even 
 this much of her, it was necessary to push matte'^rs far- 
 ther than they had yet gone. He had certainly pledged 
 himself to her, and he firmly believed that she considered 
 herself bound to him. But beyond that, nothing" de:^ite 
 had passed. 
 
 They had been interrupted by the entrance of w(y 
 asking for orders, and he had thought that Majr 
 suelo had seemed anxious to detain the men a,«' 
 possible. That such a scene could not be iif' 
 
DON ORSINO. 319 
 
 renewed where it had been broken off was clear enough, 
 but Orsino fancied that she had not wished even to at- 
 tempt a renewal of it. He had taken her home in the 
 dusk, and she had refused to let him enter the hotel with 
 her. She said that she wished to be alone, and he had 
 been fain to be satisfied with the pressure of her hand and 
 the look in her eyes, which both said much while not 
 saying half of what he longed to hear and know. 
 
 He would see her, of course, at the usual hour on the 
 following day, and he determined to speak plainly and 
 strongly. She could not ask him to prolong such a state 
 of uncertainty. Considering how gradual the steps had 
 been which had led up to what had taken place on that 
 rainy afternoon it was not conceivable, he thought, that 
 she would still ask for time to make up her mind. She 
 would at least consent to some preliminary agreement 
 upon a line of conduct for both to follow. 
 
 But impossible as the other case seemed, Orsino did 
 not neglect it. His mind was developing with his char- 
 acter and was acquiring the habit of foreseeing difficulties 
 in order to forestall them. If Maria Consuelo returned 
 suddenly to her original point of view maintaining that 
 the promise given to her dying husband was still binding, 
 Orsino determined that he would go to Spicca in a last 
 resort. Whatever the bond which united them, it was 
 clear that Spicca possessed some kind of power over Maria 
 Consuelo, and that he was so far acquainted with all the 
 circumstances of her previous life as to be eminently 
 capable of giving Orsino advice for the future. 
 
 He went to his office on the following morning with 
 little inclination for work. It would be more just, per- 
 haps, to say that he felt the desire to pursue his usual 
 occupation while conscious that his mind was too much 
 disturbed by the events of the previous afternoon to con- 
 centrate itself upon the details of accounts and plans. 
 He found himself committing all sorts of errors of over- 
 sight quite unusual with him. Figures seemed to have 
 lost their value and plans their meaning. "With the ut- 
 
320 DON OESINO. 
 
 most determination lie held himself to his task, not will- 
 ing to believe that his judgment and nerve could be so 
 disturbed as to render him unfit for any serious business. 
 But the result was contemptible as compared with the 
 effort. 
 
 Andrea Contini, too, was inclined to take a gloomy 
 view of things, contrary to his usual habit. A report 
 was spreading to the effect that a certain big contractor 
 was on the verge of bankruptcy, a man who had hitherto 
 been considered beyond the danger of heavy loss. There 
 had been more than one small failure of late, but no one 
 had paid much attention to such accidents which were 
 generally attributed to personal causes rather than to an 
 approaching turn in the tide of speculation. But Contini 
 chose to believe that a crisis was not far off. He pos- 
 sessed in a high degree that sort of caution which is 
 valuable rather in an assistant than in a chief. Orsino 
 was little inclined to share his architect's despondency 
 for the present. 
 
 "You need a change of air," he said, pushing a heap 
 of papers away from him and lighting a cigarette. " You 
 ought to go down to Porto d'Anzio for a few days. You 
 have been too long in the heat." 
 
 "No longer than you, Don Orsino," answered Contini, 
 from his own table. 
 
 " You are depressed and gloomy. You have worked 
 harder than I. You should really go out of town for a 
 day or two." 
 
 " I do not feel the need of it." 
 
 Contini bent over his table again and a short silence 
 followed. Orsino's mind instantly reverted to Maria 
 Consuelo. He felt a violent desire to leave the office and 
 go to her at once. There was no reason why he should 
 not visit her in the morning if he pleased. At the worst, 
 she might refuse to receive him. He was thinking how 
 she would look, and wondering whether she would smile 
 or meet him with earnest half regretful eyes, when Con- 
 tini' s voice broke into his meditations again. 
 
DON OESINO. 321 
 
 " You think I am despondent because I have been work- 
 ing too long in the heat," said the young man, rising and 
 beginning to pace the floor before Orsino. " No. I am 
 not that kind of man. I am never tired. I can go on for 
 ever. But affairs in Rome will not go on for ever. I 
 tell you that, Don Orsino. There is trouble in the air. 
 I wish we had sold everything and could wait. It would 
 be much better." 
 
 "All this is very vague, Contini." 
 
 " It is very clear to me. Matters are going from bad to 
 worse. There is no doubt that Eonco has failed." 
 
 "Well, and if he has? We are not Eonco. He 
 was involved in all sorts of other speculations. If 
 he had stuck to land and building he would be as sound 
 as ever." 
 
 " For another month, perhaps. Do you know why he 
 is ruined?" 
 
 "By his own fault, as people always are. He was 
 rash." 
 
 " ISTo rasher than we are. I believe that the game is 
 played out. Eonco is bankrupt because the bank witH 
 which he deals cannot discount any more bills this 
 week." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " Because the foreign banks will not take any more of 
 all this paper that is flying about. Those small failures 
 in the summer have produced their effect. Some of the 
 paper was in Paris and some in Vienna. It turned out 
 worthless, and the foreigners have taken fright. It is 
 all a fraud, at best — or something very like it." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Tell me the truth, Don Orsino— have you seen a 
 centime of all these millions which every one is dealing 
 with? Do you believe they really exist? No. It is all 
 paper, paper, and more paper. There is no cash in the 
 business." 
 
 "But there is land and there are houses, which repre- 
 sent the millions substantially." 
 
322 . ■ DON OKSINO. 
 
 " Substantially ! Yes — as long as the inflation lasts. 
 After that they will represent nothing." 
 
 " You are talking nonsense, Contini. Prices may fall,- 
 and some people will lose, but you cannot destroy real 
 estate permanently." 
 
 " Its value may be destroyed for ten or twenty years, 
 which is practically the same thing when people have no 
 other property. Take this block we are building. It 
 represents a large, sum. Say that in the next six months 
 there are half a dozen failures like Eonco's and that a 
 panic sets in. We could then neither sell the houses nor 
 let them. What would they represent to us? Nothing. 
 Failure — like the failure of everybody else. Do you 
 know where the millions really are? You ought to know 
 better than most people. They are in Casa Saracinesca 
 and in a few other great houses which have not dabbled 
 in all this business, and perhaps they are in the pockets 
 of a few clever men who have got out of it all in time. 
 They are certainly not in the firm of Andrea Contini and 
 Company, which will assuredly be bankrupt before the 
 winter is out." 
 
 Contini bit his cigar savagely, thrust his hands into 
 his pockets and looked out of the window, turning his 
 back on Orsino. The latter watched his companion in 
 surprise, not understanding why his dismal forebodings 
 should find such sudden and strong expression. 
 
 "I think you exaggerate very much," said Orsino. 
 " There is always risk in such business as this. But it 
 strikes me that the risk was greater when we had less 
 capital." 
 
 "Capital!" exclaimed the architect contemptuously 
 and without turning round. " Can we draw a cheque — a 
 plain unadorned cheque and not a draft — for a hundred 
 thousand francs to-day? Or shall we be able to draw it 
 to-morrow? Capital! We have a lot of brick and 
 mortar in our possession, put together more or less sym- 
 metrically according to our taste, and practically unpaid 
 for. If we manage to sell it in time we shall get the 
 
DON OEsrao. 323 
 
 difference between -what is paid and what we owe. That 
 is our capital. It is problematical, to say the least of it. 
 If we realise less than we owe we are bankrupt." 
 
 He came back suddenly to Orsino's table as he ceased 
 speaking and his face showed that he was really dis- 
 turbed. Orsino looked at him steadily for a few seconds. 
 
 "It is not only Eonco's failure that frightens you, 
 Contini. There must be something else." 
 
 " More of the same kind. There is enough to frighten 
 any one." 
 
 " No, there is something else. You have been talking 
 with somebody." 
 
 " With Del Ferice's confidential clerk. Yes — it is quite 
 true. I was with him last night." 
 
 "And what did he say? What you have been telling 
 me, I suppose." 
 
 " Something much more disagreeable — something you 
 would rather not hear." 
 
 "I wish to hear it." 
 
 "You should, as a matter of fact." 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 "We are completely in Del Ferice's hands." 
 
 "We ara in the hands of his bank." 
 
 "What is the difference? To all intents and purposes 
 he is our bank. The proof is that but for him we should 
 have failed already." 
 
 Orsino looked up sharply. 
 
 "Be clear, Contini. Tell me what you mean." 
 
 "I mean this. For a month past the bank could not 
 have discounted a hundred francs' worth of our paper. 
 Del Ferice has taken it all and advanced the money out 
 of his private account." 
 
 "Are you sure of what you are telling me?" Orsino 
 asked the question in a low voice, and his brow con- 
 tracted. 
 
 " One can hardly have better authority than the clerk's 
 own statement." 
 
 "And he distinctly told you this, did he?" 
 
324 DOIT ORSIKO. 
 
 "Most distinctly." 
 
 " He must have had an object in betraying such a con- 
 fidence," said Orsino. " It is not likely that such a man 
 would carelessly tell you or me a secret which is evi- 
 dently meant to be kept." 
 
 He spoke quietly enough, but the tone of his voice was 
 changed and betrayed how greatly he was moved by the 
 news. Contini began to walk up and down again, but 
 did not make any answer to the remark. 
 
 "How much do we owe the bank?" Orsino asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Eoughly, about six hundred thousand." 
 
 "How much of that paper do you think Del Ferice has 
 taken up himself? " 
 
 "About a quarter, I fancy, from what the clerk told 
 me." 
 
 A long silence followed, during which Orsino tried to 
 review the situation in all its various aspects. It was 
 clear that Del Perice did not wish Andrea Contini and 
 Company to fail and was putting himself to serious in- 
 convenience in order to avert the catastrophe. Whether 
 he wished, in so doing, to keep Orsino in his power, or 
 whether he merely desired to escape the charge of having 
 ruined his old- enemy's son out of spite, it was hard to 
 decide. Orsino passed over that question quickly enough. 
 So far as any sense of humiliation was concerned he knew 
 very well that his mother would be ready and able to pay 
 off all his liabilities at the shortest notice. What Orsino 
 felt most deeply was profound disappointment and utter 
 disgust at his own folly. It seemed to him that he had 
 been played with and flattered into the belief that he was 
 a serious man of business, while all along he had been 
 pushed and helped by unseen hands. There was nothing 
 to prove that Del Terice had not thus deceived him from 
 the first ; and, indeed, when he thought of his small be- 
 ginnings early in the year and realised the dimensions 
 which the business had now assumed, he could not help 
 believing that Del Ferice had been at the bottom of all 
 
DON OBSINO. 325 
 
 his apparent success and that his own earnest and cease- 
 less efforts had really had but little to do with the devel- 
 opment of his affairs. His vanity suffered terribly under 
 the first shock. 
 
 He was bitterly disappointed. During the preceding ' 
 months he had begun to feel himself independent and 
 able to stand alone, and he had looked forward in the 
 near future to telling his father that he had made a for- 
 tune for himself without any man's help. He had remem- 
 bered every word of cold discouragement to which he had 
 been forced to listen at the very beginning, and he had 
 felt sure of having a success to set against each one of 
 those words. He knew that he had not been idle and he 
 had fancied that every hour of work had produced its 
 permanent result, and left him with something more to 
 show. He had seen his mother's pride in him growing 
 day by day with his apparent success, and he had been 
 confident of proving to her that she was not half proud 
 enough. All that was gone in a moment. He saw, or 
 fancied that he saw, nothing but a series of failures 
 which had been bolstered up and inflated into seeming 
 triumphs by a man whom his father despised and hated 
 and whom, as a man, he himself did not respect. The 
 disillusionment was complete. 
 
 At first it seemed to him that there was nothing to be 
 done but to go directly to Saracinesca and tell the truth 
 to his father and mother. Financially, when the wealth 
 of the family was taken into consideration there was 
 nothing very alarming in the situation. He would borrow 
 of his father enough to clear him with Del Feriee and 
 would sell the unfinished buildings for what they would 
 bring. He might even induce his father to help him in 
 finishing the work. There would be no trouble about the 
 business question. As for Contini, he should not lose 
 by the transaction and permanent occupation could 
 doubtless be found for him on one of the estates if he 
 chose to accept it. 
 
 He thought of the interview and his vanity dreaded it. 
 
326 DON OESINO. 
 
 Another plan suggested itself to him. On the whole, it 
 seemed easier to bear his dependence on Del Ferice than 
 to confess himself beaten. There was nothing dishon- 
 ourable, nothing which could be called so at least, in 
 accepting financial accommodation from a man whose 
 business it was to lend money on security. If Del Perice 
 chose to advance sums which his bank would not advance, 
 he did it for good reasons of his own and certainly not in 
 the intention of losing by it in the end. In case of 
 failure Del Ferice would take the buildings for the debt 
 and would certainly in that case get them for much less 
 than they were worth. Orsino would be no worse off 
 than when he had begun, he would frankly confess that 
 though he had lost nothing he had not made a fortune, 
 and the matter would be at an end. That would be very 
 much easier to bear than the humiliation of confessing at 
 the present moment that he was in Del Fence's power 
 and would be bankrupt but for Del Ferice's personal 
 help. And again he repeated to himself that Del Ferice 
 was not a man to throw money away without hope of 
 recovery with interest. It was inconceivable, too, that 
 Ugo should have pushed him so far merely to flatter a 
 young man's vanity. He meant to make use of him, or 
 to make money out of his failure. In either case Orsino 
 would be his dupe and would not be under any obligation 
 to him. Compared with the necessity of acknowledging 
 the present state of his affairs to his father, the prospect 
 of being made a tool of by Del Ferice was bearable, not 
 to say attractive. 
 
 " What had we better do, Contini? " he asked at length. 
 
 " There is nothing to be done but to go on, I suppose, 
 until we are ruined," replied the architect. "Even if we 
 had the money, we should' gain nothing by taking off all 
 our bills as they fall due, instead of renewing them." 
 
 " But if the bank will not discount any more " 
 
 " Del Ferice will, in the bank's name. When he is 
 ready for the failure, we shall fail and he will profit by 
 our loss." 
 
DON OESINO. 327 
 
 "Do you think that is what he means to do? " 
 
 Contini looked at Orsino in surprise. 
 
 "Of course. What did you expect? You do not sup- 
 pose that he means to make us a present of that paper, or 
 to hold it indefinitely until we can make a good sale." 
 
 "And he will ultimately get possession of all the paper 
 himself." 
 
 " Naturally. As the old bills fall due we shall renew 
 them with him, practically, and not with the bank. He 
 knows what he is about. He probably has some scheme 
 for selling the whole block to the government, or to some 
 institution, and is sure of his profit beforehand. Our 
 failure will give him a profit of twenty-five or thirty per 
 cent." 
 
 Orsino was strangely reassured by his partner's gloomy 
 view. To him every word proved that he was free from 
 any personal obligation to Del Ferice and might accept 
 the latter's assistance without the least compunction. 
 He did not like to remember that a man of Ugo's subtle 
 intelligence might have something more important in 
 view than a profit of a few hundred thousand francs, if 
 indeed the sum should amount to that. Orsino's brow 
 cleared and his expression changed. 
 
 "You seem to like the idea," observed Contini rather 
 irritably. 
 
 " I would rather be ruined by Del Ferice than helped 
 by him." 
 
 " Ruin means so little to you, Don Orsino. It means 
 the inheritance of an enormous fortune, a princess for a 
 wife and the choice of two or three palaces to live in." 
 
 "That is one way of putting it," answered Orsino, 
 almost laughing. "As for yourself, my friend, I do not 
 see that your prospects are so' very bad. Do you suppose 
 that I shall abandon you after having led you into this 
 scrape, and after having learned to like you and under- 
 stand your talent? You are very much mistaken. We 
 have tried this together and failed, but as you rightly say 
 I shall not be in the least ruined by the failure. Do you 
 
328 DON OKSINO. 
 
 know what will happen? My father will tell me that 
 since I have gained some experience I should go and 
 manage one of the estates and improve the buildings. 
 Then you and I will go together." 
 
 Contini smiled suddenly and his bright eyes sparkled. 
 He was profoundly attached to Orsino, and thought per- 
 haps as much of the loss of his companionship as of the 
 destruction of his material hopes in the event of a 
 liquidation. 
 
 " If that could be, I should not care what became of 
 the business," he said simply. 
 
 "How long do you think we shall last?" asked Orsino 
 after a short pause. 
 
 " If business grows worse, as I think it will, we shall 
 last until the first bill that falls due after the doors and 
 windows are put in." 
 
 "That is precise, at least." 
 
 "It will probably take us into January, or perhaps 
 February." 
 
 "But suppose that Del Terice himself gets into trouble 
 . between now and then. If he cannot discount any more, 
 what will happen? " 
 
 " We shall fail a little sooner. But you need not be 
 afraid of that. Del Ferice knows what he is about better 
 than we do, better than his confidential clerk, much 
 better than most men of business in Rome. If he fails, 
 he will fail intentionally and at the right moment." 
 
 " And do you not think that there is even a remote pos- 
 sibility of an improvement in business, so that nobody 
 will fail at all?" ' " 
 
 " Ko, " answered Contini thoughtfully. " I do not think 
 so. It is a paper system and it will go to pieces." 
 
 "Why have you not said the same thing before? You 
 must have had this opinion a long time." 
 
 " I did not believe that Eonco could fail. An accident 
 opens the eyes." 
 
 Orsino had almost decided to let matters go on but he 
 found some difficulty in actually making up his mind. In 
 
DON OESINO. 329 
 
 spite of Contini's assurances he could not get rid of the 
 idea that he was under an obligation to Del Ferice. Once, 
 at least, he thought of going directly to Ugo and asking 
 for a clear explanation of the -whole affair. Bat Ugo was 
 not in town, as he knew, and tne impossibility of going 
 at once made it improbable that Orsino would go at all. 
 It would not have been a very wise move, for Del Terice 
 could easily deny the story, seeing that the paper was all 
 in the bank's name, and he would probably have visited 
 the indiscretion upon the unfortunate clerk. 
 
 In the long silence which followed, Orsino relapsed 
 into his former despondency. After all, whether he 
 confessed his failure or not, he had undeniably failed and 
 been played upon from the first, and he admitted it to 
 himself without attempting to spare his vanity, and his 
 self-contempt was great and painful. The fact that he 
 had grown from a boy to a man during his experience did 
 not make it easier to bear such wounds, which are felt 
 more keenly by the strong than by the weak when they 
 are real. 
 
 As the day wore on the longing to see Maria Consuelo 
 grew upon him until he felt that he had never before 
 wished to be with her as he wished it now. He had no 
 intention of telling her his trouble but he needed the 
 assurance of an ever ready sympathy which he so often 
 saw in her eyes, and which was always there for him 
 when he asked it. When there is love there is reliance, 
 whether expressed or not, and where there is reliance, 
 be it ever so slender, there is comfort for many ills of 
 body, mind and soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Orsino felt suddenly relieved when he had left his of&ce 
 in the afternoon. Contini's gloomy mood was contagious, 
 and so long as Orsino was with him it was impossible not 
 to share the architect's view of affairs. Alone, however, 
 
330 DON OESINO. 
 
 things did not seem so bad. As a matter of fact it was 
 almost impossible for the young man to give up all his 
 illusions concerning his own success in one moment, and 
 to believe himself the dupe of his own blind vanity in- 
 stead of regarding himself as the winner in the fight for 
 independence of thought and action. He could not deny 
 the facts Contini alleged. He had to admit that he was 
 apparently in Del Ferice's power, unless he appealed to 
 his own people for assistance. He was driven to ac- 
 knowledge that he had made a great mistake. But he 
 could not altogether distrust himself and he fancied that 
 after all, with a fair share of luck, he might prove a 
 match for Ugo on the financier's own ground. He had 
 learned to have confidence in his own powers and judg- 
 ment, and as he walked away from the ofiBce every mo- 
 ment strengthened his determination to struggle on with 
 such resources as he might be able to command, so long 
 as there should be a possibility of action of any sort. 
 He felt, too, that more depended upon his success than 
 the mere satisfaction of his vanity. If he failed, he 
 might lose Maria Consuelo as well as his self-respect. 
 He had that sensation, familiar enough to many young 
 men when extremely in love, that in order to be loved in 
 return one must succeed, and thq,t a single failure en- 
 dangers the stability of a passion which, if it be honest, 
 has nothing to do with failure or success. At Orsino's 
 age, and with his temper, it is hard to believe that pity 
 is more closely akin to love than admiration. 
 
 Gradually the conviction reasserted itself that he could 
 fight his way through unaided, and his spirits rose as he 
 approached the more crowded quarters of the city on his 
 way to the hotel where Maria Consuelo was stopping. 
 Not even the yells of the newsboys affected him, as they 
 announced the failure of the great contractor Eonco and 
 offered, in a second edition, a complete account of the 
 bankruptcy. It struck him indeed that before long the 
 same brazen voices might be screaming out the news that 
 Andrea Contini and Company had come to grief. But 
 
DON OKSINO. 331 
 
 the idea lent a sense of danger to the situation which 
 Orsino did not find unpleasant. The greater the difficulty 
 the greater the merit in overcoming it, and the greater 
 therefore the admiration he should get from the -woman 
 he loved. His position was certainly an odd one, and 
 many men would not have felt the excitement which he 
 experienced. The financial side of the question was 
 strangely indifferent to him, who knew himself backed 
 by the great fortune of his family, and believed that his 
 ultimate loss could only be the small sum with which he 
 had begun his operations. But the moral risk seemed 
 enormous and grew in importance as he thought of it. 
 
 He found Maria Consuelo looking pale and weary. She 
 evidently had no intention of going out that day, for she 
 wore a morning gown and was established upon a lounge 
 with books and flowers beside her as though she did not 
 mean to move. She was not reading, however. Orsino 
 was startled by the sadness in her face. 
 
 She looked fixedly into his eyes as she gave him her 
 hand, and he sat down beside her. 
 
 "I am glad you are come," she said at last, in a low 
 voice. "I have been hoping all day that you would 
 come early." 
 
 "I would have come this morning if I had dared," an- 
 swered Orsino. 
 
 She looked at him again, and smiled faintly. 
 
 "I have a great deal to say to you," she began. Then 
 she hesitated as though uncertain where to begin. 
 
 " And I " Orsino tried to take her hand, but she 
 
 withdrew it. 
 
 "Yes, but do not say it. At least, not now." 
 
 "Why not, dear one? May I not tell you how I love 
 you? What is it, love? You are so sad to-day. Has 
 anything happened? " 
 
 His voice grew soft and tender as he spoke, bending to 
 her ear. She pushed him gently back. 
 
 "You know what has happened," she answered. "It 
 is no wonder that I am sad," 
 
332 DON OKsnsro. 
 
 "I do not understand you, dear. Tell me what it is." 
 
 " I told you too much yesterday " 
 
 "Too much?" 
 
 "Far too much." 
 
 "Are you going to unsay it?" 
 
 "How can I?" 
 
 She turned her face away and her fingers played ner- 
 vously with her laces. 
 
 "No — indeed, neither of us can unsay such words," 
 said Orsino. " But I do not understand you yet, darling. 
 You must tell me what you mean to-day." 
 
 " You know it all. It is because you will hot under- 
 stand " 
 
 Orsino's face changed and his voice took another tone 
 when he spoke. 
 
 "Are you playing with me, Consuelo?" he asked 
 gravely. 
 
 She started slightly and grew paler than before. 
 
 "You are not kind," she said. "I am suffering very 
 much. Do not make it harder." 
 
 "I am suffering, too. You mean me to understand 
 that you regret what happened yesterday and that you 
 wish to take back your words, that whether you love me 
 or not, you mean to act and appear as though you did 
 not, and that I am to behave as though nothing had hap- 
 pened. Do you think that would be easy? And do you 
 think I do not suffer at the mere idea of it? " 
 
 " Since it must be " 
 
 "There is no must," answered Orsino with energy. 
 " You would ruin your life and mine for the mere shadow 
 of a memory which you choose to take for a binding 
 promise. I will not let you do it." 
 
 "You will not? " She looked at him quickly with an 
 expression of resistance. 
 
 "No — I will not," he repeated. "We have too much 
 at stake. You shall not lose all for both of us." 
 
 "You are wrong, dear one," she said, with sudden soft- 
 ness. " If you love me, you should believe me and trust 
 me. I can give you nothing but unhappiness " 
 
DON OKsmo. 333 
 
 " You have given me the only happiness I ever knew — 
 and you ask me to believe that you could make me un- 
 happy in any way except by not loving me ! Consuelo — 
 my darling — are you out of your senses?" 
 
 "No. I am too much in them. I wish I were not. If 
 I were mad I should " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Nevermind. I will not even say it. No — do not try 
 to take my hand, for I will not give it to you. Listen, 
 Orsino — be reasonable, listen to me " 
 
 "I will try and listen." 
 
 But Maria Consuelo did not speak at once. Possibly 
 she was trying to collect her thoughts. 
 
 "What have you to say, dearest?" asked Orsino at 
 length. "I will try to understand." 
 
 " You must understand. I will make it all clear to you 
 and then you will see it as I do." 
 
 "And then— what?" 
 
 "And then we must part," she said in a low voice. 
 
 Orsino said nothing, but shook his head incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, " repeated Maria Consuelo, " we must not see each 
 other any more after this. It has been all my fault. I 
 shall leave Rome and not come back again. It will be 
 best for yoi^and I will make it best for me." 
 
 "You talk very easily of parting." 
 
 "Do I? Every word is a wound. Do I look as though 
 I were indifferent?" 
 
 Orsino glanced at her pale face and tearful eyes. 
 
 "No, dear," he said softly. 
 
 "Then do not call me heartless. I have more heart 
 than you think — and it is breaking. And do not say 
 that I do not love you. I love you better than you know 
 — better than you will be loved again when you are older 
 — and happier, perhaps. Yes, I know what you want to 
 say. Well, dear — you love me, too. Yes, I know it. Let 
 'there be no unkind words and no doubts between us to- 
 day. I think it is our last day together." 
 
 "For God's sake, Consuelo " 
 
334 DON OESHsro. 
 
 " We shall see. Now let me speak — if 1 can. There 
 are three reasons why you and I should not marry. I 
 have thought of them through all last night and all to- 
 day, and I know them. The first is my solemn vow to 
 the dying man who loved me so well and who asked 
 nothing but that— whose wife I never was, but whose 
 name I bear. Think me mad, superstitious — what you 
 will — I cannot break that promise. It was almost an 
 oath not to love, and if it was I have broken it. But the 
 rest I can keep, and will. The next reason is that I am 
 older than you. I might forget that, I have forgotten 
 it more than once, but the time will come soon when 
 you will remember it." 
 
 Orsino made an angry gesture and would have spoken, 
 but she checked him. 
 
 "Pass that over, since we are both young. The third 
 reason is harder to tell and no power on earth can ex- 
 plain it away. I am no match for you in birth, Or- 
 sino " 
 
 The young man interrupted her now, and fiercely. 
 
 " Do you dare to think that I care what your birth may 
 be?" he asked. 
 
 " There are those who do care, even if you do not, dear 
 one," she answered quietly. 
 
 "And what is their caring to you or me?" 
 
 " It is not so small a matter as yau think. I am not 
 talking of a mere difference in rank. It is worse than 
 that. I do not really know who I am. Do you under- 
 stand? I do not know who my mother was nor whether 
 she is alive or dead, and before I was married I did not 
 bear my father's name." 
 
 " But you know your father — you know his name at 
 least?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who is he?" Orsino could hardly pronounce the 
 words of the question. 
 
 "Count Spicca." 
 
 Maria Consuelo spoke quietly, but her fingers trembled 
 
DON OKSINO. 335 
 
 nervously and she watched Orsino's face in evident dis- 
 tress and anxiety. As for Orsino, he was almost dumb 
 with amazement. 
 
 "Spicca! Spicca your father!" he repeated indis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 In all his many speculations as to the tie which existed 
 between Maria Consuelo and the old duellist, he had 
 never thought of this one. 
 
 "Then you never suspected it?" asked Maria Con- 
 suelo. 
 
 "How should I? And your own father killed your 
 husband — good Heavens ! What a story ! " 
 
 " You know now. You see for yourself how impossible 
 it is that I should marry you." 
 
 In his excitement Orsino had risen and was pacing the 
 room. He scarcely heard her last words, and did not say 
 anything in reply. Maria Consuelo lay quite still upon 
 the lounge, her hands clasped tightly together and strain- 
 ing upon each other. 
 
 " You see it all now, " she said again. This time his 
 attention was arrested and he stopped before her. 
 
 "Yes. I see what you mean. But I do not see it as 
 you see it. I do not see that any of these things you 
 have told me need hinder our marriage." 
 
 Maria Consuelo did not move, but her expression 
 changed. The light stole slowly into her face and lin- 
 gered there^^ not driving away the sadness but illuminat- 
 ing it. 
 
 " And would you have the courage, in spite of your 
 family and of society, to marry me, a woman practically 
 nameless, older than yourself " 
 
 "I not only would, but I will," answered Orsino. 
 
 "You cannot — but I thank you, dear," said Maria 
 Consuelo. 
 
 He was standing close beside her. She took his hand 
 and tenderly touched it with her lips. He started and 
 drew it back, for no woman had ever kissed his hand. 
 
 " You must not do that ! " he exclaimed, instinctively. 
 
336 DON OESINO. 
 
 " And why not, if I please?" she asked, raising her 
 eyebrows with a little affectionate laugh. 
 
 " I am not good enough to kiss your hand, darling — still 
 less to let you kiss mine. Never mind — we were talk- 
 ing — where were we?" 
 
 " You were saying " But he interrupted her. 
 
 " What does it matter, when I love you so, and you 
 love me?" he asked passionately. 
 
 He knelt beside her as she lay on the lounge and took 
 her hands, holding them and drawing her towards him. 
 She resisted and turned her face away. 
 
 "No — no! It matters too much — let me go, it only 
 makes it worse ! " 
 
 "Makes what worse? " 
 
 "Parting " 
 
 " We will not part. I will not let you go ! " 
 
 But still she struggled with her hands and he, fearing 
 to hurt them in his grasp, let them slip away with a lin- 
 gering touch. 
 
 "Get up," she said. "Sit here, beside me — a little 
 further — there. We can talk better so." 
 
 " I cannot talk at all ■" 
 
 "Without holding my hands?" 
 
 "Why should I not?" 
 
 " Because I ask you. Please, dear " 
 
 She drew back on the lounge, raised herself a little and 
 turned her face to him. Again, as his eyes met hers, he 
 leaned forward quickly, as though he would leave his 
 seat. But she checked him, by an imperative glance and 
 a gesture. He was unreasonable and had no right to be 
 annoyed, but somethingin her manner chilled him and 
 pained him in a way he could not have explained. When 
 he spoke there was a shade of change in the tone of his 
 voice. 
 
 " The things you have told me do not influence me in 
 the least," he said with more (dimness than he had yet 
 shown. "What you believe to be the most important 
 reason is no reason at all to me. You are Count Spicca's 
 
DON oRsmo, 337 
 
 daughter. He is an old friend of my father— not that it 
 matters very materially, bi;t it may make everything 
 easier. I will go to him to-day and tell him that I wish 
 to marry you " 
 
 " You will not do that ! " exclaimed Maria Consuelo in 
 a tone of alarm. 
 
 "Yes, I will. Why not? Do you know what he once 
 said to me? He told me he wished we might take a fancy 
 to each other, because, as he expressed it, we should be 
 so well matched." 
 
 "Did he say that?" asked Maria Consuelo gravely. 
 
 " That or something to the same effect. Are you sur- 
 prised? A¥hat surprises me is that I should never have 
 guessed the relation between you. Now your father is a 
 very honourable man. What he said meant something, 
 and when he said it he meant that our marriage would 
 seem natural to him and to everybody. I will go and 
 talk to him. So much for your great reason. As for the 
 second you gave, it is absurd. We are of the same age, 
 to all intents and purposes." 
 
 "I am not twenty-three years old." 
 
 " And I am not quite two and twenty. Is that a differ- 
 ence? So much for that. Take the third, which you put 
 first. Seriously, do you think that any intelligent being 
 would consider you bound by such a promise? Do you 
 mean to say that a young girl — ^you were nothing more — 
 has a right to throw away her life out of sentiment by 
 making a promise of that kind? And to whom? To a 
 man who is not her husband, and never can be, because 
 he is dying. To a man just not indifferent to her, to a 
 man " 
 
 Maria Consuelo raised herself and looked full at Orsino. 
 Her face was extremely pale and her eyes were suddenly 
 dark and gleamed. 
 
 " Don Orsino, you have no right to talk to me in that 
 way. I loved him — ^no one knows how I loved him ! " 
 
 There was no mistaking the tone and the look. Orsino 
 felt again and more strongly, the chill and the pain he 
 
338 DON ORSINO. 
 
 had felt before. He was silent for a moment. Maria 
 Consuelo looked at him a second longer, and then let her 
 head fall back upon the cushion. But the expression 
 which had come into her face did not change at once. 
 
 "Torgive me," said Orsino after a pause. "I had not 
 quite understood. The only imaginable reason which 
 could make our marriage impossible would be that. If 
 you loved him so well — if you loved him in such a way 
 as to prevent you from loving me as I love you — why 
 then, you may be right after all." 
 
 In the silence which followed, he turned his face away 
 and gazed at the window. He had spoken quietly enough 
 and his expression, strange to say, was calm and thought- 
 ful. It is not always easy for a woman to understand a 
 man, for men soon learn to conceal what hurts them but 
 take little trouble to hide their happiness, if they are 
 honest. A man more often betrays himself by a look of 
 pleasure than by an expression of disappointment. It was 
 thought manly to bear pain in silence long before it 
 became fashionable to seem indifferent to joy. 
 
 Orsino's manner displeased Maria Consuelo. It was 
 too quiet and cold and she thought he cared less than he 
 really did. 
 
 "You say nothing," he said at la^. . 
 
 "What shall I say? You speak of something prevent- 
 ing me from loving you as you love me. How can I tell 
 how much you love me ? " 
 
 "Do you not see it? Do you not feel it?" Orsino's 
 tone warmed again as he turned towards her, but he was 
 conscious of an effort. Deeply as he loved her, it was 
 not natural for him to speak passionately just at that 
 moment, but he knew she expected it and he did his best. 
 She was disappointed. 
 
 "Not always," she answered with a little sigh. 
 
 "You do not always believe that I love you?" 
 
 " I did not say that. I am not always sure that you 
 love me as much as you think you do — ^you imagine a 
 great deal." 
 
DON ORsnsro. 339 
 
 "I did not know it." 
 
 "Yes — sometimes. I am sure it is so." 
 
 " And how am I to prove that you are wrong and I am 
 right?" 
 
 "How should I know? Perhaps time will show." 
 
 " Time is too slow for me. There must be some other 
 way." 
 
 "Find it then," said Maria Consuelo, smiling rather 
 sadly. 
 
 "I will." 
 
 He meant what he said, but the difficulty of the prob- 
 lem perplexed him and there was not enough conviction 
 in his voice. He was thinking rather of the matter itself 
 than of what he said. Maria Consuelo fanned herself 
 slowly and stared at the wall. 
 
 "If you doubt so much," said Orsino at last, "I have 
 the right to doubt a little too. If you loved me well 
 enough you would promise to marry me. You do not." 
 
 There was a short pause. At last Maria Consuelo 
 closed her fan, looked at it and spoke. 
 
 " You say my reason is not good. Must I go all over 
 it again? It seems a good one to me. Is it incredible 
 to you that a woman should love twice? Such things 
 have happened before. Is it incredible to you that, lov- 
 ing one person, a woman should respect the memory of 
 another and a solemn promise given to that other? I 
 should respect myself less if I did not. That it is all 
 my fault I will admit, if you like — that I should never 
 have received you as I did — I grant it all — ^that I was 
 weak yesterday, that I am weak to-day, that I should be 
 weak to-morrow if I let this go on. I am sorry. You 
 can take a little of the blame if you are generous enough, 
 or vain enough. You have tried hard to make me love 
 you and you have succeeded, for I love you very much. 
 So much the worse for me. It must end now." 
 
 "You do not think of me, when you say that." 
 
 " Perhaps I think more of you than you know — or will 
 understand. I am older than you — do not interrupt me ! 
 
340 DON OKSINO. 
 
 I am older, for a -woman is always older than a man 
 in some things. I know what will happen, what will 
 certainly happen in time if we do not part. You will 
 grow jealous of a shadow and I shall never be able to tell 
 you that this same shadow is not dear to me. You will 
 come to hate what I have loved and love still, though it 
 does not prevent me from loving you too " 
 
 "But less well," said Orsino rather harshly. 
 
 "You would believe that, at least, and the thought 
 would always be between us." 
 
 " If you loved me as much, you would not hesitate. 
 You would marry me living, as you married him dead." 
 
 "If there were no other reason against it " She 
 
 stopped. 
 
 "There is no other reason," said Orsino insisting. 
 
 Maria Consuelo shook her head but said nothing and a 
 long silence followed.., Orsino sat still, watching her and 
 wondering what was passing in her mind. It seemed to 
 him, and perhaps rightly, that if she were really in ear- 
 nest and loved him with all her heart, the reasons she 
 gave for a separation were far from sufficient. He had 
 not even much faith in her present obstinacy and he did 
 not believe that she would really go away. It was incred^ 
 ible that any woman could be so capricious as she chose 
 to be. Her calmness, or what appeared to him her calm- 
 ness, made it even less probable, he thought, that she 
 meant to part from him. But the thought alone was 
 enough to disturb him seriously. He had suffered a 
 severe shock with outward composure but not without 
 inward saffering, followed naturally enough by something 
 like angry resentment. As he viewed the situation, 
 Maria Consuelo had alternately drawn him on and dis- 
 appointed him from the very beginning; she had taken 
 delight in forcing him to speak out his love, only to chill 
 him the next moment, or the next day, with the certainty 
 that she did not love him sincerely. Just then he would 
 have preferred not to put into words the thoughts of her 
 that crossed his mind. They would have expressed a 
 
DON oKsmo. 341 
 
 disbelief in her character which he did not really feel 
 and an opinion of his own judgment which he would rather 
 not have accepted. 
 
 He even went so far, in his anger, as to imagine what 
 would happen if he suddenly rose to go. She would put 
 on that sad look of hers and give him her hand coldly. 
 Then just as he reached the door she would call him back, 
 only to send him away again. He would find on the fol- 
 lowing day that she had not left town after all, or, at most, 
 that she had gone to Florence for a day or two, while the 
 workmen completed the furnishing of her apartment. 
 Then she would come back and would meet him just as 
 though there had never been anything between them. 
 
 The anticipation was so painful to him that he wished 
 to have it realised and over as soon as possible, and he 
 looked at her again before rising from his seat. He could 
 hardly believe that she was the same woman who had 
 stood with him, watching the thunderstorm, on the pre- 
 vious afternoon. 
 
 He saw that she was pale, but she was not facing the 
 light and the expression of her 'face was not distinctly 
 visible. On the whole, he fancied that her look was 
 one of indifference. Her hands lay idly upon her fan and 
 by the drooping of her lids she seemed to be looking at 
 them. The full, curved lips were closed, but not drawn 
 in as though in pain, nor pouting as though in displeas- 
 ure. She appeared to be singularly calm. After hesi- 
 tating another moment Orsino rose to his feet. He had 
 made up his mind what to say, for it was little enough, 
 but his voice trembled a little. 
 
 "Good-bye, Madame." 
 
 Maria Consuelo started slightly and looked up, as 
 though to see whether he really meant to go at that 
 moment. She had no idea that he really thought of tak- 
 ing her at her word and parting then and there. She did 
 not realise how true it was, that she was much older than 
 he and she had never believed him to be as impulsive as 
 he sometimes seemed. 
 
342 DON OKSINO. 
 
 " Do not go yet," she said, instinctively. 
 
 " Since you say that we must part " he stopped, as 
 
 though leaving her to finish the sentence in imagination. 
 
 A frightened look passed quickly over Maria Con- 
 suelo's face. She made as though she would have taken 
 his hand, then drew back her own and bit her lip, not 
 angrily but as though she were controlling something. 
 
 " Since you insist upon our parting," Orsino said, after 
 a short, strained silence, " it is better that it should be 
 got over at once." In spite of himself his voice was still 
 unsteady. 
 
 " I did not — no — yes, it is better so." 
 
 "Then good-bye, Madame." 
 
 It was impossible for her to understand all that had 
 passed in his mind while he had sat beside her, after the 
 previous conversation had ended. His abruptness and 
 coldness were incomprehensible to her. 
 
 " Good-bye, then — Orsino." 
 
 For a moment her eyes rested on his. It was the sad 
 look he had anticipated, and she put out her hand now. 
 Surely, he thought, if she loved him she would not let 
 him go so easily. He took her fingers- and would have 
 raised them to his lips when they suddenly closed on 
 his, not with the passionate, loving pressure of yester- 
 day, but firmly and quietly, as though they would not be 
 disobeyed, guiding him again to his seat close beside her. 
 He sat down. 
 
 " Good-bye, then, Orsino," she repeated, not yet relin- 
 quishing her hold. "Good-bye, dear, since it must be 
 good-bye — but not good-bye as you said it. You shall 
 not go until you can say it differently." 
 
 She let him go now and changed her own position. 
 Her feet slipped to the ground and she leaned with her 
 elbow upon the head of the lounge, resting her cheek 
 against her hand. She was nearer to him now than be- 
 fore and their eyes met as they faced each other. She 
 had certainly not chosen her attitude with any second 
 thought of her own appearance, but as Orsino looked into 
 
DON OESINO. 343 
 
 her face lie saw again clearly all the beauties that he had 
 so long admired, the passionate eyes, the full, firm mouth, 
 the broad brow, the luminous white skin — all beauties in 
 themselves though not, together, making real beauty in 
 her case. And beyond these he saw and felt over them 
 all and through them all the charm that fascinated him, 
 appealing as it were to him in particular of all men as it 
 could not appeal to another. He was still angry, dis- 
 turbed out of his natural self and almost out of his pas- 
 sion, but he felt none the less that Maria Consuelo could 
 hold him if she pleased, as long as a shadow of affection 
 for her remained in him, and perhaps longer. When she 
 spoke, he knew what she meant, and he did not interrupt 
 her nor attempt to answer. 
 
 " I have meant all I have said to-day," she continued. 
 " Do not think it is easy for me to say more. I would 
 give all I have to give to take back yesterday, for yester- 
 day was my great mistake. I am only a woman and you 
 will forgive me. I do what I am doing now, for your 
 sake — God knows it is not for mine. God knows how 
 hard it is for me to part from you. I am in earnest, you 
 see. You believe me now." 
 
 Her voice was steady but the tears were already 
 welling over. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I believe you," Orsino answered softly. 
 Women's tears are a great solvent of man's ill temper. 
 
 "As for this being right and best, this parting, you 
 will see it as I do sooner or later. But you do believe 
 that I love you, dearly, tenderly, very — well, no matter 
 how — ^you believe it ? " 
 
 "I believe it " 
 
 "Then say 'good-bye, Consuelo' — and kiss me once — 
 for what might have been." 
 
 Orsino half rose, bent down and kissed her cheek. 
 
 " Good-bye, Consuelo," he said, almost whispering the 
 words into her ear. In his heart he did not think she 
 meant it. He still expected that she would call him 
 back. 
 
344 DON OESINO. 
 
 " It is good-bye, dear— believe it— remember it ! " Her 
 voice shook a little now. 
 
 " Good-bye, Consuelo," he repeated. 
 
 With a loving look that meant no good-bye he drew 
 back and -went to the door. He laid his hand on the 
 handle and paused. "She did not speak. Then he looked 
 at her again. Her head had fallen back against a cush- 
 ion and her eyes were half closed. He waited a second 
 and a keen pain shot through him. Perhaps she was in 
 earnest after all. In an instant he had recrossed the 
 room and was on his knees beside her trying to take her 
 hands. 
 
 " Consuelo — darling — you do not really mean it ! You 
 cannot, you will not " 
 
 He covered her hands with kisses and pressed them to 
 his heart. For a few moments she made no movement, 
 but her eyelids quivered. Then she sprang to her feet, 
 pushing him back violently as he rose with her, and 
 turning her face from him. 
 
 " Go — go ! " she cried wildly. " Go — let me never see 
 you again — never, never ! " 
 
 Before he could stop her, she had passed him with a 
 rush like a swallow on the wing and was gone from the 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Orsino was not in an enviable frame of mind when he 
 left the hotel. It is easier to bear suffering when one 
 clearly understands all its causes, and distinguishes just 
 how great a part of it is inevitable and how great a part 
 may be avoided or mitigated. In the present case there 
 was much in the situation which it passed his power to 
 analyse or comprehend. He still possessed the taste for 
 discovering motives in the actions of others as well as in 
 his own, but many months of a busy life had dulled the 
 
DON ORSINO. 345 
 
 edge of the artificial logic in which he had formerly de- 
 lighted, while greatly sharpening his practical wit. Arti- 
 ficial analysis supplies from the imagination the details 
 lacking in facts, but common sense needs something more 
 tangible upon which to work. Orsino felt that the chief 
 circumstance which had determined Maria Consuelo's 
 conduct had escaped him, and he sought in vain to de- 
 tect it. 
 
 He rejected the supposition that she was acting upon 
 a caprice, that she had yesterday believed it possible to 
 marry him, while a change of humour made marriage 
 seem out of the question to-day. She was as capricious as 
 most women, perhaps, but not enough so for that. Be- 
 sides, she had been really consistent. Not even yesterday 
 had she been shaken for a moment in her resolution not 
 to be Orsino's wife. To-day had confirmed yesterday 
 therefore. However Orsino might have still doubted her 
 intention when he had gone to her side for the last time, 
 her behaviour then and her final words had been unmis- 
 takable. She meant to leave Rome at once. 
 
 Yet the reasons she had given him for her conduct 
 were not sufiicient in his eyes. The difference of age 
 was so small that it could safely be disregarded. Her 
 promise to the dying Aranjuez was an engagement, he 
 thought, by which no person of sense should expect her 
 to abide. As for the question of her birth, he relied on 
 that speech of Spicca's which he so well remembered. 
 Spicca might have spoken the words thoughtlessly, it 
 was true, and believing that Orsino would never, under 
 any circumstances whatever, think seriously of marrying 
 Maria Consuelo. But Spicca was not a man who often 
 spoke carelessly, and what he said generally meant at 
 least as much as it appeared to mean. 
 
 It was doubtless true that Maria Consuelo was ignorant 
 of her mother's name. Nevertheless, it was quite possi- 
 ble that her mother had been Spicca's wife. Spicca's life 
 was said to be full of strange events not generally known. 
 But though his daughter might, and doubtless did, believe 
 
346 DON OBsrNO. 
 
 herself a nameless child, and, as sucK, no match for the 
 heir of the Saracinesca, Orsino could not see why she 
 should have insisted upon a parting so sudden, so pain- 
 ful and so premature. She knew as much yesterday and 
 had known it all along. Why, if she possessed such 
 strength of character, had she allowed matters to go so 
 far when she could easily have interrupted the course of 
 events at an earlier period ? He did not admit that she 
 perhaps loved him so much as to have been carried away 
 by her passion until she found herself on the point of 
 doing him an injury by marrying him, and that her love 
 was strong enough to induce her to sacrifice herself at 
 the critical moment. Though he loved her much he did 
 not believe her to be heroic in any way. On the con- 
 trary, he said to himself that if she were sincere, and if 
 her love were at all like his own, she would let no obsta- 
 cle stand in the way of it. To him, the test of love must 
 be its utter recklessness. He could not believe that a 
 still better test may be, and is, the constant forethought 
 for the object of love, and the determination to protect 
 that object from all danger in the present and from all 
 suffering in the future, no matter at what cost. 
 
 Perhaps it is not easy to believe that recklessness is 
 a manifestation of the second degree of passion, while the 
 highest shows itself in painful sacrifice. Yet the most 
 daring act of chivalry never called for half the bravery 
 shown by many a martyr at the stake, and if courage be 
 a measure • of true passion, the passion which will face 
 life-long suffering to save its object from unhappiness or 
 degradation is greater than the passion which, for the 
 sake of possessing its object, drags it into danger and the 
 risk of ruin. It may be that all this is untrue, and that 
 the action of these two imaginary individuals, the one 
 sacrificing himself, the other, endangering the loved one, 
 is dependent upon the balance of the animal, intellectual 
 and moral elements in each. We do not know much 
 about the causes of what we feel, in spite of modern 
 analysis ; but the heart rarely deceives us, when we can 
 
DON oRsnsro. 347 
 
 see the truth for ourselves, into bestowing the more 
 praise upon the less brave of two deeds. But we do not 
 often see the truth as it is. We know little of the lives 
 of others, but we are apt to think that other people 
 understand our own very well, including our good deeds 
 if we have done any, and we expect full measure of 
 credit for these, and the utmost allowance of charity for 
 our sins. In other words we desire our neighbour to 
 combine a power of forgiveness almost divine with a 
 capacity for flattery more than parasitic. That is why 
 we are not easily satisfied with our acquaintances and 
 that is why our friends do not always turn out to be 
 truthful persons. We ask too much for the low price we 
 offer, and if we insist we get the imitation. 
 
 Orsino loved Maria Consuelo with all his heart, as 
 much as a young man of little more than one and twenty 
 can love the first woman to whom he is seriously attached. 
 There was nothing heroic in the passion, perhaps, noth- 
 ing which could ultimately lead to great results. But it 
 was a strong love, nevertheless, with much of devotion in 
 it and some latent violence. If he did not marry Maria 
 Consuelo, it was not likely that he would ever love again 
 in exactly the same way. His next love would be either 
 far better or far worse, far nobler or far baser — perhaps 
 a little less human in either case. 
 
 He walked slowly away from the hotel, unconscious of 
 the people in the street and not thinking of the direction 
 he took. His brain was in a whirl and his thoughts 
 seemed to revolve round some central point upon which 
 they could not concentrate themselves even for a second. 
 The only thing of which he was sure was that Maria 
 Consuelo had taken herself from him suddenly and al- 
 together, leaving him with a sense of loneliness which 
 he had not known before. He had gone to her in con- 
 siderable distress about his affairs, with the certainty of 
 finding sympathy and perhaps advice. He came away, 
 as some men have returned from a grave accident, appar- 
 ently unscathed it may be, but temporarily deprived of 
 
348 DON OEsnsro. 
 
 some one sense, of sight, or hearing, or touch. He was 
 not sure that he was awake, and his troubled reiiexions 
 came back by the same unvarying round to the point 
 he had reached the first time — ^if Maria Consuelo really 
 loved him, she would not let such obstacles as she spoke 
 of hinder her union with him. 
 
 For a time Orsino was not conscious of any impulse to 
 act. G-radually, however, his real nature asserted itself, 
 and he remembered how he had told her not long ago 
 that if she went away he would follow her, and how he 
 had said that' the world was small and that he would 
 soon find her again. It would undoubtedly be a simple 
 matter to accompany her, if she left Eome. He could 
 easily ascertain the hour of her intended departure and 
 that alone would tell him the direction she had chosen. 
 When she found that she had not escaped him she would 
 very probably give up the attempt and come back, her 
 humour would change and his own eloquence would do 
 the rest. 
 
 He stopped in his walk, looked at his watch and 
 glanced about him. He was at some distance from the 
 hotel and it was growing dusk, for the days were already 
 short. If Maria Consuelo really meant to leave Eome 
 precipitately, she might go by the evening train to Paris 
 and in that case the people of the hotel would have been 
 informed of her intended departure. 
 
 Orsino only admitted the possibility of her actually 
 going away while believing in his heart that she would 
 remain. He slowly retraced his steps, and it was seven 
 o'clock befflre he asked the hotel porter by what train 
 Madame d'Aranjuez was leaving. The porter did not 
 . know whether the lady was going north or south, but he 
 called another man, who went in search of a third, who 
 disappeared for some time. 
 
 "Is it sure that Madame d'Aranjuez goes to-night?" 
 asked Orsino trying to look indifferent. 
 
 " Quite sure. Her rooms will be free to-morrow." 
 
 Orsino turned away and slowly paced up and down 
 
DON OESINO. 349 
 
 the marble pavement between the tall plants, waiting 
 for the messenger to come back. 
 
 " Madame d'Aranjuez leaves at nine forty-five," said 
 the man, suddenly reappearing. 
 
 Orsino hesitated a moment, and then made up his 
 mind. 
 
 " Ask Madame if she will receive me for a moment," 
 he said, producing a card. 
 
 The servant went away and again Orsino walked back- 
 wards and forwards, pale now and very nervous. She 
 was really going, and was going north — probably to 
 Paris. 
 
 "Madame regrets infinitely that she is not able to 
 receive the Signor Prince," said the man in black at 
 Orsino's elbow. " She is making her preparations for 
 the journey." 
 
 " Show me where I can write a note," said Orsino, who 
 had expected the answer. 
 
 He was shown into the reading-room and writing 
 materials were set before him. He hurriedly wrote a 
 few words to Maria Consuelo, without form of address 
 and without signature. 
 
 " I will not let you go without me. If you will not 
 see me, I will be in the train, and I will not leave you, 
 wherever you go. I am in earnest." 
 
 He looked at the sheet of note-paper and wondered 
 that he should find nothing more to say. But he had said 
 all he meant, and sealing the little note he sent it up to 
 Maria Consuelo with a request for an immedi|ite answer. 
 Just then the dinner bell of the hotel was rung. The 
 reading-room was deserted. He waited five minutes, then 
 ten, nervously turning over the newspapers and reviews 
 on the long table, but quite unable to read even the 
 printed titles. He rang and asked if there had been no 
 answer to his note. The man was the same whom he 
 had sent before. He said the note had been received at 
 the door by the maid who had said that Madame d'Aran- 
 juez would ring when her answer was ready. Orsing 
 
350 DON ORSINO. 
 
 dismissed the servant and waited again. It crossed his 
 mind that the maid might have pocketed the note and 
 said nothing about it, for reasons of her own. He had 
 almost determined to go upstairs and boldly enter the 
 sitting-room, when the door opposite to him opened and 
 Maria Consuelo herself appeared. 
 
 She was dressed in a dark close-fitting travelling cos- 
 tume, but she wore no hat. Her face was quite colourless 
 and looked if possible even more unnaturally pale by con- 
 trast with her bright auburn hair. She shut the door 
 behind her and stood still, facing Orsino in the glare of 
 the electric lights. 
 
 " I did not mean to see you again," she said, slowly. 
 " You have forced me to it." 
 
 Orsino made a step forward and tried to take her hand, 
 but she drew back. The slight uncertainty often visible 
 in the direction of her glance had altogether disappeared 
 and her eyes met Orsino's directly and fearlessly. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " I have forced you to it. I know 
 it, and you cannot reproach me if I have. I will not 
 leave you.- I am going with you wherever you go." 
 
 He spoke calmly, considering the great emotion he felt, 
 and there was a quiet determination in his words and 
 tone which told how much he was in earnest. Maria Con- 
 suelo half believed that she could dominate him by sheer 
 force of will, and she would not give up the idea, even 
 now. 
 
 " You will not go with me, you will not even attempt 
 it," she said. 
 
 It would have been difl&cult to guess from her face at 
 that moment that she loved him. Her face was pale and 
 the expression was almost hard. She held her head high 
 as though she were looking down at him, though he 
 towered above her from his shoulders. 
 
 "You do not understand me," he answered, quietly. 
 " When I say that I will go with you, I mean that I will go." 
 
 " Is this a trial of strength ? " she asked after a mo- 
 ment's pause. 
 
BON OKSESrO. 351. 
 
 "If it is, I am not conscious of it. It costs me no 
 effort to go— it would cost me much to stay behind— too 
 much." 
 
 He stood quite still before her, looking steadily into 
 her eyes. There was a short silence, and then she sud- 
 denly looked down, moved and turned away, beginning to 
 walk slowly about. The room was large, and he paced the 
 floor beside her, looking down at her bent head. 
 
 " Will you stay if I ask you to ? " 
 
 The question came in a lower and softer tone than she 
 had used before. 
 
 " I will go with you," answered Orsino as firmly as ever. 
 
 " Will you do nothing for my asking ? " 
 
 " I will do anything but that." 
 
 "But that is all I ask." 
 
 " You are asking the impossible." 
 
 " There are many reasons why you should not come with 
 me. Have you thought of them all ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You should. You ought to know, without being told 
 by me, that you would be doing me a great injustice and 
 a great injury in following me. You ought to know what 
 the world will say of it. Eemember that I am alone." 
 
 " I will marry you." 
 
 "I have told jou that it is impossible — no, do not 
 answer me! I will not go over all that again. I am 
 going away to-night. That is the principal thing — the 
 only thing that concerns you. Of course, if you choose, 
 you can get into the same train and pursue me to the end 
 of the world. I cannot prevent you. I thought I could, 
 but I was mistaken. I am alone. Eemember that, Or- 
 sino. You know as well as I what will be said — and the 
 fact is sure to be known." 
 
 " People will say that I am following you " 
 
 " They will say that we are gone together, for every 
 one will have reason to say it. Do you suppose that 
 nobody is aware of our — our intimacy during the last 
 month?" 
 
352 DON OESLNO. 
 
 " Why not say our love ? " 
 
 "Because I hope no one knows of that — well, if they 
 do — Orsino, be kind! Let me go alone — as a man of 
 honour, do not injure me by leaving Eome with me, nor 
 by following me when I am gone ! " 
 
 She stopped and looked up into his face with an im- 
 ploring glance. To tell the truth, Orsino had not fore- 
 seen that she might appeal to his honour, alleging the 
 danger to her reputation. He bit his lip and avoided 
 her eyes. It was hard to yield, and to yield so quickly, 
 as it seemed to him. 
 
 " How long will you stay away ? " he asked in a con- 
 strained voice. 
 
 " I shall not come back at all." 
 
 He wondered at the firmness of her tone and manner. 
 Whatever the real ground of her resolution might be, the 
 resolution itself had gained strength since they had parted 
 little more than an hour earlier. The belief suddenly 
 grew upon him again that she did not love him. 
 
 " Why are you going at all ? " he asked abruptly. " If 
 you loved me at all, you would stay." 
 
 She drew a sharp breath and clasped her hands ner- 
 vously together. 
 
 "I should stay if I loved you less. But I have told 
 you — I will not go over it all again. This must end — 
 this saying good-bye ! It is easier to end it at once." 
 
 " Easier for you " 
 
 " You do not know what you are saying. You will 
 know some day. If you can bear this, I cannot." 
 
 " Then stay — if you love me, as you say you do." 
 
 "As I say I do!" 
 
 Her eyes grew very grave and sad as she stopped 
 and looked at him again. Then she held out both her 
 hands, 
 
 " I am going, now. Good-bye." 
 
 The blood came back to Orsino's face. It seemed to 
 him that he had reached the. crisis of his life and his 
 instinct was to struggle hard against his fate. With a 
 
DON 0E8IN0. 353 
 
 quick movement he caught her in his arms, lifting her 
 from her feet and pressing her close to him. 
 
 " You shall not go ! " 
 
 He kissed her passionately again and again, while she 
 fought to be free, straining at his arms with her small 
 white hands and trying to turn her face from him. 
 
 "Why do you struggle ? It is of no use." He spoke 
 in very soft deep tones, close to her ear. 
 
 She shook her head desperately and still did her best 
 to slip from him, though she might as well have tried to 
 break iron clamps with her fingers. 
 
 " It is of no use," he repeated, pressing her still more 
 closely to him. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she cried, making a violent effort, as 
 fruitless as the last. 
 
 « No ! " 
 
 Then she was quite still, realising that she had no 
 chance with him. 
 
 " Is it manly to be brutal because you are strong ? " 
 she asked. " You hurt me." 
 
 Orsino's arms relaxed, and he let her go. She drew a 
 long breath and moved a step backward and towards the 
 door. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said again. But this time she did 
 not hold out her hand, though she looked long and fix- 
 edly into his face. 
 
 Orsino made a movement as though he would have 
 caught her again. She started and put out her hand be- 
 hind her towards the latch. But he did not touch her. 
 She softly opened the door, looked at him once more and 
 went out. 
 
 When he realised that she was gone he sprang after 
 her, calling her by name. 
 
 "Consuelo!" 
 
 There were a few people walking in the broad passage. 
 They stared at Orsino, but he did not heed them as he 
 passed by. Maria Consuelo was not there, and he under- 
 stood in a moment that it would be useless to seek her 
 
 2a 
 
354 DON. ORSINO. 
 
 further. He stood still a moment, entered the reading- 
 room again, got his hat and left the hotel without looking 
 behind him. 
 
 All sorts of wild ideas and schemes flashed through his 
 brain, each more absurd and impracticable than the last. 
 He thought of going back and finding Maria Consuelo's 
 maid — he might bribe her to prevent her mistress's de- 
 parture. He thought of offering the driver of the train 
 an enormous sum to do some injury to his engine before 
 reaching the first station out of Eome. He thought of 
 stopping Maria Consuelo's carriage on her way to the 
 train and taking her by main force to his father's house. 
 If she were compromised in such a way, she would be 
 almost obliged to marry him. He afterwards wondered 
 at the stupidity of his own inventions on that evening, 
 but at the time nothing looked impossible. 
 
 He bethought him of Spicca. Perhaps the old man 
 possessed some power over his daughter after all and 
 could prevent her flight if he chose. There were yet 
 nearly two hours left before the train started. If worst 
 came to worst, Orsino could still get to the station at the 
 last minute and leave Rome with her. 
 
 He took a passing cab and drove to Spicca's lodgings. 
 The count was at home, writing a letter by the light of 
 a small lamp. He looked up in surprise as Orsino en- 
 tered, then rose and offered him a chair. 
 
 " What has happened, my friend ? " he asked, glancing 
 curiously at the young man's face. 
 
 "Everything," answered Orsino. "I love Madame 
 d'Aranjuez, she loves me, she absolutely refuses to marry 
 me and she is going to Paris at a quarter to ten. I know 
 she is your daughter and I want you to prevent her from 
 leaving. That is all, I believe." 
 
 Spicca's cadaverous face did not change, but the hollow 
 eyes grew bright and fixed their glance on an imaginary 
 point at an immense distance, and the thin hand that lay 
 on the edge of the table closed slowly upon the project- 
 ing wood. For a few moments he said nothing, but 
 when he spoke he seemed quite calm. 
 
DON oKsmo. 356 
 
 "If she has told you that she is my daughter," he said, 
 "I presume that she has told you the rest. Is that 
 true ? " 
 
 Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate 
 action, but he understood that the count had a right to 
 ask the question. 
 
 " She has told me that she does not know her mother's 
 name, and that you killed her husband." 
 
 "Both these statements are perfectly true at all 
 events. Is that all you know ? " 
 
 "All ? Yes — all of importance. But there is no time 
 to be lost. No one but you can prevent her from leaving 
 Eome to-night. You must help me quickly." 
 
 Spicca looked gravely at Orsino and shook his head. 
 The light that had shone in his eyes for a moment was 
 gone, and he was again his habitual, melancholy, indif- 
 ferent self. 
 
 " I cannot stop her," he said, almost listlessly. 
 
 "But you can — you will, you must!" cried Orsino 
 laying a hand on the old man's thin arm. " She must 
 not go " 
 
 "Better that she should, after all. Of what use is it 
 for her to stay ? She is quite right. You cannot marry 
 her." 
 
 " Cannot marry her ? Why not ? It is not long since 
 you told me very plainly that you wished I would marry 
 her. You have changed your mind very suddenly, it 
 seems to me, and I would like to know why. Do you 
 remember all you said to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, and I was in earnest, as I am now. And I was 
 wrong in telling you what I thought at the time." 
 
 "At the time! How can matters have changed so 
 suddenly ? " 
 
 "I do not say that matters have changed. I have. 
 That is the important thing. I remember the occasion 
 of our conversation very well. Madame d'Aranjuez had 
 been rather abrupt with me, and you and I went away 
 together. I forgave her easily enough, for I saw that she 
 
356 DON OESINO. 
 
 was unhappy — then I thought how different her lifemight 
 be if she were married to you. I also wished to convey 
 to you a warning, and it did not strike me that you would 
 ever seriously contemplate such a marriage." 
 
 " I think you are in a certain way responsible for the 
 present situation," answered Orsino. " That is the reason 
 why I come to you for help." 
 
 Spicca turned upon the young man rather suddenly. 
 
 " There you go too far," he said. " Do you mean to 
 tell me that you have asked that lady to marry you 
 because I suggested it ? " 
 
 " No, but -" 
 
 " Then I am not responsible at all. Besides, you might 
 have consulted me again, if you had chosen. I have not 
 been out of town. I sincerely wish that it were possible 
 — ^yes, that is quite another matter. But it is not. If 
 Madame d'Aranjuez thinks it is not, from her point of 
 view there are a thousand reasons why I should consider 
 it far more completely out of the question. As for pre- 
 venting her from leaving Eome I could not do that even 
 were I willing to try." 
 
 " Then I will go with her," said Orsino, angrily. 
 
 Spicca looked at him in silence for a few moments. 
 Orsino rose to his feet and prepared to go. 
 
 "You leave me no choice," he said, as though Spicca 
 had protested. 
 
 " Because I cannot and will not stop her ? Is that any 
 reason why you should compromise her reputation as you 
 propose to do ? " 
 
 " It is the best of reasons. She will marry me then, 
 out of necessity." 
 
 Spicca rose also, with more alacrity than generally 
 characterised his movements. He stood before the 
 empty fireplace, watching the young man narrowly. 
 
 " It is not a good reason," he said, presently, in quiet 
 tones. " You are not the man to do that sort of thing. 
 You are too honourable." 
 
 " I do not see anything dishonourable in following the 
 woman I love." 
 
DON ORSIKO. 857 
 
 " That depends on the way in which you follow her. 
 If you go quietly home to-night and write to your father 
 that you have decided to go to Paris for a few days and 
 will leave to-morrow, if you make your arrangements like 
 a sensible being and go away like a sane man, I have 
 nothing to say in the matter " 
 
 "I presume not " interrupted Orsino, facing the 
 
 old man somewhat fiercely. 
 
 " Very well. We will not quarrel yet. "We will re- 
 serve that pleasure for the moment when you cease 
 to understand me. That way of following her would 
 be bad enough, but no one would have any right to stop 
 you." 
 
 " No one has any right to stop me, as it is." 
 
 "I beg your pardon. The present circumstances are 
 different. In the first instance the world would say that 
 you were in love with Madame d'Aranjuez and were pur- 
 suing her to press your suit — of whatever nature that 
 might be. In the second case the world will assert that 
 you and she, not meaning to be married, have adopted 
 the simple plan of going away together. That implies 
 her consent, and you have no right to let any one imply 
 that. I say, it is not honourable to let people think that 
 a lady is risking her reputation for you and perhaps sac- 
 rificing it altogether, when she is in reality trying to 
 escape from you. Am I right, or not ? " 
 
 " You are ingenious, at all events. You talk as though 
 the whole world were to know in half an hour that I 
 have gone to Paris in the same train with Madame 
 d'Aranjuez. That is absurd ! " 
 
 " Is it ? I think not. Half an hour is little, perhaps, 
 but half a day is enough. You are not an insignificant 
 son of an unknown Eoman citizen, nor is Madame 
 d'Aranjuez a person who passes unnoticed. Reporters 
 watch people like you for items of news, and you are 
 perfectly well known by sight. Apart from that, do you 
 think that your servants will not tell your friends' ser- 
 vants of your sudden departure, or that Madame d'Aran- 
 
358 DON ORSINO. 
 
 juez' going will not be observed ? You ought to know 
 Rome better than that. I ask you again, am I right or 
 wrong ? " 
 
 "What difference will it make, if we are married 
 immediately ? " 
 
 "She will never marry you. I am convinced of 
 that." 
 
 ■ " How can you know ? Has she spoken to you about 
 it?" 
 
 "I am the last person to whom she would come." 
 
 "Her own father " 
 
 " With limitations. Besides, I had the misfortune to 
 deprive her of the chosen companion of her life, and at 
 a critical moment. She has not forgotten that." 
 
 "No she has not," answered Orsino gloomily. The 
 memory of Aranjuez was a sore point. "Why did you 
 kill him ? " he asked, suddenly. 
 
 "Because he was an adventurer, a liar and a thief — 
 three excellent reasons for killing any man, if one can. 
 Moreover he struck her once — with that silver paper 
 cutter which she insists on using — and I saw it from a 
 distance. Then I killed him. Unluckily I was very 
 angry and made a little mistake, so that he lived twelve 
 hours, and she had time to get a priest and marry him. 
 She always pretends that he struck her in play, by acci- 
 dent, as he was showing her something about fencing. 
 I was in the next room and the door was open — it did 
 not look like play. And she still thinks that he was the 
 paragon of all virtues. He was a handsome devil — some- 
 thing like you, but shorter, with a bad eye. I am glad I 
 killed him." 
 
 Spicca had looked steadily at Orsino while speaking. 
 When he ceased, he began to walk aBout the small room 
 with something of his old energy. Orsino roused him- 
 self. He had almost begun to forget his own position in 
 the interest of listening to the count's short story. 
 
 " So much for Aranjuez," said Spicca. " Let us hear 
 no more of him. As for this mad plan of yours, you are 
 
DON ORsmo. 359 
 
 convinced, I suppose, and you will give it up. Go home 
 and decide in the morning. For my part, I tell you it is 
 useless. She will not marry you. Therefore leave her 
 alone and do nothing which can injure her." 
 
 " I am not convinced," answered Orsino doggedly. 
 
 " Then you are not your father's son^ ISTo Saracinesca 
 that I ever knew would do what you mean to do — would 
 wantonly tarnish the good name of a woman — of a woman 
 who loves him too — and whose only fault is that she can- 
 not marry him." 
 
 " That she will not." 
 
 "That she cannot." 
 
 " Do you give me your word that she cannot ? " 
 
 " She is legally free to marry whom she pleases, with 
 or without my consent." 
 
 " That is all I want to know. The rest is nothing to 
 me " 
 
 " The rest is a great deal. I beg you to consider all 
 I have said, and I am sure that you will, quite sure. 
 There are very good reasons for not telling you or any 
 one else all the details I know in this story — so good 
 that I would rather go to the length of a quarrel with 
 you than give them all. I am an old man, Orsino, and 
 what is left of life does not mean much to me. I will 
 sacrifice it to prevent your o;^ening this door unless you 
 tell me that you give up the idea of leaving Eome to- 
 night." 
 
 As he spoke he placed himself before the closed door 
 and faced the young man. He was old, emaciated, 
 physically broken down, and his hands were empty. 
 Orsino was in his first youth, tall, lean, active and very 
 strong, and no coward. He was moreover in an ugly hu- 
 mour and inclined to be violent on much smaller provo- 
 cation than he had received. But Spicca imposed upon 
 him, nevertheless, for he saw that he was in earnest. 
 Orsino was never afterwards able to recall exactly what 
 passed through his mind at that moment. He was phys- 
 ically able to thrust Spicca aside and to open the door. 
 
S60 DON OBSINO. 
 
 without so much as hurting him. He did not believe 
 that, even in that case, the old man would have insisted 
 upon the satisfaction of arms, nor would he have been 
 afraid' to meet him if a duel had been required. He 
 knew that what withheld him from an act of violence 
 was neither fear nor respect for his adversary's weakness 
 and age. Yet he was quite unable to define the influence 
 which at last broke down his resolution. It was in all 
 probability only the resultant of the argument Spicca had 
 brought to bear and which Maria Consuelo had herself 
 used in the first instance, and of Spicca's calm, undaunted 
 personality. 
 
 The crisis did not last long. The two men faced each 
 other for ten seconds and then Orsino turned away with 
 an impatient movement of the shoulders. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "I will not go with her." 
 
 " It is best so," answered Spicca, leaving the door and 
 returning to his seat. 
 
 "I suppose that she will let you know where she is, 
 will she not ? " asked Orsino. 
 
 "Yes. She will write to me." 
 
 "Good-night, then." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 Without shaking hands, and almost without a glance 
 at the old man, Orsino left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Orsino walked slowly homeward, trying to collect his 
 thoughts and to reach some distinct defermination with 
 regard to the future. He was oppressed by the sense of 
 failure and disappointment and felt inclined to despise 
 himself for his weakness in yielding so easily. To all 
 intents and purposes he had lost Maria Consuelo, and if 
 he had not lost her through his own fault, he had at least 
 
DON ORSINO. 361 
 
 tamely abandoned what had seemed like a last chance 
 of winning her back. As he thought of all that had 
 happened he tried to fix some point in the past, at which 
 he might have acted differently, and from which another 
 act of consequence might have begun. But that was 
 not easy. Events had followed each other with a cer- 
 tain inevitable logic, which only looked unreasonable 
 because he suspected the existence of facts beyond his 
 certain knowledge. His great mi'Stake had been in going 
 to Spicca, but nothing could have been more natural, 
 under the circumstances, than his appeal to Maria Con- 
 suelo's father, nothing more unexpected than the latter's 
 determined refusal to help him. That there was weight 
 in the argument used by both Spicca and Maria Consuelo 
 herself, he could not deny ; but he failed to see why the 
 marriage was so utterly impossible as they both de- 
 clared it to be. There must be much more behind the 
 visible circumstances than he could guess. 
 
 He tried to comfort himself with the assurance that he 
 could leave Rome on the following day, and that Spicca 
 would not refuse to give him Maria Consuelo's address in 
 Paris. But the consolation he derived from the idea was 
 small. He found himself wondering at the recklessness 
 shown by the woman he loved in escapira; from him. 
 His practical Italian mind could hardly understand how 
 she could have changed all her plans in a moment, aban- 
 doning her half-furnished apartment without a word of 
 notice even to the workmen, throwing over her intention 
 of spending the winter in Rome as though she had not 
 already spent many thousands in 'preparing her dwelling, 
 and going away, probably, without as much as leaving 
 a representative to wind up her accounts. It may seem 
 strange that a man as much in love as Orsino was should 
 think of such details at such a moment. Perhaps he 
 looked upon them rather as proofs that she meant to 
 come back after all; in any case he thought of them 
 seriously, and even calculated roughly the sum she would 
 be sacrificing if she stayed away. 
 
362 DON ORSINO. 
 
 Beyond all he felt the dismal loneliness which a maji- 
 can only feel when he is suddenly and effectually parted 
 from the woman he dearly loves, and which is not like 
 any other sensation of which the human heart is 
 capable. 
 
 More than once, up to the last possible moment, he was 
 tempted to drive to the station and leave with Maria 
 Consuelo after all, but he would not break the promise 
 he had given Spieca, no matter how weak he had been in 
 giving it. 
 
 On reaching his home he was informed, to his great 
 surprise, that San Giacinto was waiting to see him. He 
 could not remember that his cousin had ever before 
 honoured him with a visit and he wondered -what could 
 have brought him now and induced him to wait, just at 
 the hour when most people were at dinner. 
 
 The giant was reading the evening paper, with the 
 help of a particularly strong cigar. 
 
 " I am glad you have come home," he said, rising and 
 taking the young man's outstretched hand. " I should 
 have waited until you did." 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " asked Orsino nervously. 
 It struck hifh. that San Giacinto might be the bearer of 
 some bad nesas about his people, and the grave expression 
 on the strongr)r marked face helped the idea. 
 
 "A great deal is happefling. The crash has begun. 
 You must get out of your business in less than three 
 days if you can." 
 
 Orsino drew a breath of relief at first, and then grew 
 grave in hi *turn, realising that unless matters were very 
 serious such a man as San Giacinto would not put himself 
 to the inconvenience of coming. San Giacinto was little 
 given to offering advice unasked, still less to interfering 
 in the affairs of others. 
 
 " I understand," said Orsino. " You think that every- 
 thing is going to pieces. I see." 
 
 The big man looked at his young cousin with something 
 like pity. 
 
DON OKSINO. 363 
 
 "If I only suspected, or thought— as you put it— that 
 there was to be a collapse of business, I should not have 
 taken the trouble to warn you. The crash has actually 
 begun. If you can save yourself, do so at once." 
 
 "I think I can," answered the young man, bravely. 
 But he did not at all see how his salvation was to be ac- 
 complished. " Can you tell me a little more definitely 
 what is the matter ? Have there been any more failures 
 to-day ? " 
 
 "My brother-in-law Montevarchi is on the point of 
 stopping payment," said San Giacinto calmly. 
 
 " Montevarchi ! " 
 
 Orsino did not conceal his astonishment. 
 
 " Yes. Do not speak of it. And he is in precisely the 
 same position, so far as I can judge of your affairs, as you 
 yourself, though of course he has dealt with sums ten 
 times as great. He will make enormous sacrifices and 
 will pay, I suppose, after all. But he will be quite 
 ruined. He also has worked with Del Fence's bank." 
 
 "And the bank refuses to discount any more of his 
 paper ? " 
 
 "Precisely. Since this afternoon." 
 
 " Then it will refuse to discount mine to-morrow." 
 
 " Have you acceptances due to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes — ^not much, but enough to make the trouble. It 
 will be Saturday, too, and we must have money for the 
 workmen." 
 
 " Have you not even enough in reserve for that ? " 
 
 " Perhaps. I cannot tell. Besides, if the bank refuses 
 to renew I cannot draw a cheque." 
 
 "I am sorry for you. If I had known yesterday how 
 near the end was, I would have warned you." 
 
 "Thanks. I am grateful as it is. Can you give me 
 any advice ? " 
 
 Orsino had a vague idea that his rich cousin would 
 generously propose to help him out of his difficulties. He 
 was not quite sure whether he could bring himself to ac- 
 cept such assistance, but he more than half expected that 
 
364 DON OESINO. 
 
 it would be offered. In this, however, he was completely 
 mistaken. San Giacinto had not the smallest intention 
 of offering anything more substantial than his opinion. 
 Considering that his wife's brother's liabilities amounted 
 to something like five and twenty millions, this was not 
 surprising. The giant bit his cigar and folded his long 
 arms over his enormous chest, leaning back in the easy 
 chair which creaked under his weight. 
 
 "You have tried yourself in business by this time, 
 Orsino," he said, " and you know as well as I what there is 
 to be done. You have three modes of action open to you. 
 You can fail. It is a simple affair enougii. The bank will 
 take your buildings for what they will be worth a few 
 months hence, on the day of liquidation. There will be a 
 big deficit, which your father will pay for you and deduct 
 from your share of the division at his death. That is one 
 plan, and seems to me the best. It is perfectly honour- 
 able, and you lose by it. Secondly, you can go to your 
 father to-morrow and ask him to lend you money to meet 
 your acceptances and to continue the work until the houses 
 are finished and can be sold. They will ultimately go for 
 a quarter of their value, if you can sell them at all within 
 the year, and you will be in your father's debt, exactly as 
 in the other case. You would avoid the publicity of a 
 failure, but it would cost you more, because the houses 
 will not be worth much more when they are finished than 
 they are now." 
 
 " And the third plan — what is it ? " inquired Orsino. 
 
 " The third way is this. You can go to Del Ferice, and 
 if you are a diplomatist you may persuade him that it is 
 in his interest not to let you fail. I do not think you will 
 succeed, but you can try. If he agrees it will be because 
 he counts on your father to pay in the end, but it is 
 questionable whether Del Ferice's bank can afford to let 
 out any more cash at the present moment. Money is 
 going to be very tight, as they say." 
 
 Orsino smoked in silence, pondering over'^he situation, 
 San Giacinto rose. 
 
DON OESINO. 365 
 
 " You are warned, at all events," he said. " You will 
 find a great change for the worse in the general aspect of 
 things to-morrow." 
 
 " I am much obliged for the warning," answered Orsino. 
 " I suppose I can always find you if I need your advice — 
 and you will advise me ? " 
 
 " You are welcome to my advice, such as it is, my dear 
 boy. But as for me, I am going towards Naples to-night 
 on business, and I may not be back again for a day or two. 
 If you get into serious trouble before I am here again, you 
 should go to your father at once. He knows nothing of 
 business, and has been sensible enough to keep out of it. 
 The consequence is that he is as rich as ever, and he would 
 sacrifice a great deal rather than see your name dragged 
 into the publicity of a failure. Good-night, and good luck 
 to you." 
 
 Thereupon the Titan shook Orsino's hand in his mighty 
 grip and went away. As a matter of fact he was going 
 down to look over one of Montevarchi's biggest estates 
 with a view to buying it in the coming cataclysm, but it 
 would not have been like him to communicate the smallest 
 of his intentions to Orsino, or to any one, not excepting 
 his wife and his lawyer. 
 
 Orsino was left to his own devices and meditations. A 
 servant came in and inquired whether he wished to dine 
 at home, and he ordered strong coffee by way of a meal. 
 He was at the age when a man expects to find a way out 
 of his difficulties in an artificial excitement of the nerves. 
 
 Indeed, he had enough to disturb him, for it seemed as 
 though all possible misfortunes had fallen upon him at 
 once. He had suffered on the same day the greatest shock 
 to his heart, and the greatest blow to his vanity which he 
 could conceive possible. Maria Consuelo was gone and the 
 failure of his business was apparently inevitable. When 
 he tried to review the three plans which San G-iacinto had 
 suggested, he found himself suddenly thinking of the 
 woman he loved and making schemes for following her ; 
 but so soon as he had transported himself in imagination 
 
366 DON oEsmo. 
 
 to her side and was beginning to hope that he might win 
 her back, he was torn away and plunged again into the 
 whirlpool of business at home, struggling with unheard-of 
 difficulties and sinking deeper at every stroke. 
 
 A hundred times he rose from his chair and paced the 
 floor impatiently, and a hundred times he threw himself 
 down again, overcome by the hopelessness of the situation. 
 Occasionally he found a little comfort in the reflexion 
 that the night could not last for ever. When the day came 
 he would be driven to act, iu one way or another, and he 
 would be obliged to consult his partner, Contini. Then 
 at last his mind woiild be able to follow one connected 
 train of thought for a time, and he would get rest of some 
 kind. 
 
 Little by little, however, and long before the day 
 dawned, the dominating influence asserted itself above 
 the secondary one and he was thinking only of Maria 
 Consuelo. Throughout all that night she was travelling, 
 as she would perhaps travel throughout all the next day 
 and the second night succeeding that. For she was 
 strong and having once determined upon the journey 
 would very probably go to the end of it without stopping 
 to rest. He wondered whether she too were waking 
 through all those' long hours, thinking of what she had 
 left behind, or whether she had closed her eyes and 
 found the peace of sleep for which he longed in vain. 
 He thought of her face, softly lighted by the dim lamp 
 of the railway carriage, and fancied he could actually see 
 it with the delicate shadows, the subdued richness of 
 colour, the settled look of sadness. When the picture 
 grew dim, he recalled it by a strong effort, though he 
 knew that each time it rose before his eyes he must feel 
 the same sharp thrust of pain, followed by the same dull 
 wave of hopeless misery which had ebbed and flowed 
 again so many times since he had parted from her. 
 
 At last he roused himself, looked about him as though 
 he were in a strange place, lighted a candle and betook 
 himself to his own quarters. It was very late, and he 
 
DON ORSINO. 367 
 
 was more tired than he knew, for in spite of all his 
 troubles he fell asleep and did not awake till the sun was 
 streaming into the room. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door, and a servant announced 
 that Signor Contini was waiting to see Don Orsino. The 
 man's face expressed a sort of servile surprise when he 
 saw that Orsino had not undressed for the night and had 
 been sleeping on the divan. He began to busy himself 
 with the toilet things as though expecting Orsino to take 
 some thought for his appearance. But the latter was 
 anxious to see Contini at once, and sent for him. 
 
 The architect was evidently very much disturbed. He 
 was as pale as though he had just recovered from a long 
 illness and he seemed to have grown suddenly emaciated 
 during the night. He spoke in a low, excited tone. 
 
 In substance he told Orsino what San Giacinto had said 
 on the previous evening. Things looked very black in- 
 deed, and Del Ferice's bank had refused to. discount any 
 more of Prince Montevarchi's paper. 
 
 " And we must have money to-day," Contini concluded. 
 
 "When he had finished speaking his excitement dis- 
 appeared and he relapsed into the utmost dejection. Or- 
 sino remained silent for some time and then lit a cigarette. 
 
 " You need not be so down-hearted, Contini," he said at 
 last. " I shall not have any difB.culty in getting money — 
 you know that. What I feel most is the moral failure." 
 
 "What is the moral failure to me?" asked Contini 
 gloomily. " It is all very well to talk of getting money. 
 The bank will shut its tills like a steel trap and to-day is 
 Saturday, and there are the workmen and others to be 
 paid, and several bills due into the bargain. Of course 
 your family can give you millions — in time. But we need 
 cash to-day. That is the trouble." 
 
 " I suppose the state telegraph is not destroyed because 
 Prince Montevarchi cannot meet his acceptances," ob- 
 served Orsino. " And I imagine that our steward here in 
 the house has enough cash for our needs, and will not 
 hesitate to hand it to me if he receives a telegram from 
 
368 DON OBSINO. 
 
 my father ordering him to do so. Whether he has enough 
 to take Tip the bills or not, I do not know; but as to-day- 
 is Saturday we have all day to-morrow to make arrange- 
 ments. I could even go out to Saraeinesca and be back 
 on Monday morning when the bank opens." 
 
 " You seem to take a hopeful view." 
 
 " I have not the least hope of saving the business. But 
 the question of ready money does not of itself disturb 
 me." 
 
 This was undoubtedly true, but it was also undeniable 
 that Orsino now looked upon the prospect of failure with 
 more equanimity than on the previous evening. On the 
 other hand he felt even more keenly than before all the 
 pain of his sudden separation from Maria Consuelo. 
 When a man is assailed by several misfortunes at once, 
 twenty-four hours are generally enough to sift the small 
 from the great and to show him plainly which is the 
 greatest of all. 
 
 " What shall we do this morning ? " inquired Contini. 
 
 "You ask the question as though you were going to 
 propose a picnic," answered Orsino. '' I do not see why 
 this morning need be so different from other mornings." 
 
 "We must stop the works instantly " 
 
 " Why ? At all events we will change nothing until 
 we find out the real state of business. The first thing to 
 be done is to go to the bank as usual on Saturdays. We 
 shall then know exactly what to do." 
 
 Contini shook his head gloomily and went away to wait 
 in another room while Orsino dressed. An hour later they 
 were at the bank. Contini grew paler than ever. The 
 head clerk would of course inform them that no more bills 
 would be discounted, and that they must meet those al- 
 ready out when they fell due. He would also tell them 
 that the credit balance of their account current would 
 not be at their disposal until their acceptances were met. 
 Orsino would probably at last believe that the situation 
 was serious, though he now looked so supremely and 
 scornfully indifferent to events. 
 
DON OESINO. 369 
 
 They waited some time. Several men were engaged in 
 earnest conversation, and their faces told plainly enough 
 that they were in trouble. The head clerk was standing 
 with them, and made a sign to Orsino, signifying that 
 they would soon go. Orsino watched him. From time 
 to time he shook his head and made gestures which in- 
 dicated his utter inability to do anything for them. Con- 
 tini's courage sank lower and lower. 
 
 " I will ask for Del Ferice at once," said Orsino. 
 
 He accordingly sought out one of the men who wore 
 the bank's livery and told him to take his card to the 
 count. 
 
 " The Signor Commendatore is not coming this morn- 
 ing," answered the man mysteriously. 
 
 Orsino went back to the head clerk, interrupting his 
 conversation with the others. He inquired if it were 
 true that Del Ferice were not coming. 
 
 ■" It is not probable," answered the clerk with a grave 
 face. " They say that the Signora Contessa is not likely 
 to live through the day." 
 
 " Is Donna TuUia ill ? " asked Orsino in considerable 
 astonishment. 
 
 "She returned from Naples yesterday morning, and 
 was taken ill in the afternoon — it is said to be apoplexy," 
 he added in a low voice. "If you will have patience 
 Signor Principe, I will be at your disposal in five min- 
 utes." 
 
 Orsino was obliged to be satisfied and sat down again 
 by Contini. He told him the news of Del Ferice's wife. 
 
 " That will make matters worse," said Contini. 
 
 " It will not improve them," answered Orsino indiffer- 
 ently. " Considering the state of affairs I would like to 
 see Del Ferice before speaking with any of the others." 
 
 "Those men are all involved with Prince Monte- 
 varchi," observed Contini, watching the group of which 
 the head clerk was the central figure. "You can see by 
 their faces what they think of the business. The short, 
 grey haired man is the steward — the big man is the archi- 
 
 2b 
 
370 DON OBSINO. 
 
 tect. The others are contractors. They say it is not less 
 than thirty million's." 
 
 Orsino said nothing. He was thinking of Maria Con- 
 suelo and wishing that he could get away from Eome 
 that night, while admitting that there was no possibility 
 of such a thing. Meanwhile the head clerk's gestures to 
 his interlocutors expressed more and more helplessness. 
 At last they went out in a body. 
 
 "And now I am at your service, Signor ifrincipe," 
 said the grave man of business coming up to Orsino and 
 Contini. " The usual accommodation, I suppose ? We 
 will just look over the bills and make out the new ones. 
 It will not take ten minutes. The usual cash, I suppose, 
 Signor Principe ? Yes, to-day is Saturday and you have 
 your men to pay. Quite as usual, quite as usual. Will 
 you come into my office ? " 
 
 Orsino looked at Contini, and Contini looked at Orsino, 
 grasping the back of a chair to steady himself. 
 
 " Then there is no difficulty about discounting ? " stam- 
 mered Contini, turning his face, now suddenly flushed, 
 towards the clerk. 
 
 "None whatever," answered the latter with an air of 
 real or affected surprise. "I have received the usual 
 instructions to let Andrea Contini and Company have all 
 the money they need." 
 
 He turned and led the way to his private office. Con- 
 tini walked unsteadily. Orsino showed no astonish- 
 ment, but his black eyes grew a little brighter than usual 
 as he anticipated his next interview with San Giacinto. 
 He readily attributed his good fortune to the supposed 
 well-known prosperity of the firm, and he rose in his own 
 estimation. He quite forgot that Contini, who had now 
 lost his head, had but yesterday clearly foreseen the 
 future when he had said that Del Ferice would not let the 
 two partners fail until they had fitted the last door and 
 the last window in the last of their houses. The conclu- 
 sion had struck him as just at the time. Contini was 
 the first to recall it. 
 
DON ORSINO. 371 
 
 " It -will turn out, as I said," he began, when they were 
 driving to their office in a cab after leaving the bank. 
 " He will let us live until we are worth eating." 
 
 "We will arrange matters on a firmer basis before 
 that," answered Orsino confidently.' "Poor old Donna 
 TuUia ! Who would have thought that she could die ! 
 I will stop and ask for news as we pass." 
 
 He stopped the cab before the gilded gate of the de- 
 tached house. Glancing up, he saw that the shutters 
 were closed. The porter came to the bars but did not 
 show any intention of opening. 
 
 " The Signora Contessa is dead," he said solemnly, in 
 answer to Orsino's inquiry. 
 
 " This morning ? " 
 
 "Two hours ago." 
 
 Orsino's face grew grave as he left his card of condo- 
 lence and turned away. He could hardly have named a, 
 person more indifferent to him than poor Donna Tullia, 
 but he could not help feeling an odd regret at the thought 
 that she was gone at last with all her noisy vanity, her 
 restless meddlesomeness and her perpetual chatter. She 
 had not been old either, though he called her so, and there 
 had seemed to be still a superabundance of life in her. 
 There had been yet many years of rattling, useless, social 
 life before her. To-morrow she would have taken her 
 last drive through Rome — out through the gate of Saint 
 Lawrence to the Campo Varano, there to wait many years 
 perhaps for the pale and half sickly Ugo, of whom every 
 one had said for years that he could not live through 
 another twelve month with the disease of the heart which 
 threatened him. Of late, people had even begun to 
 joke about Donna TuUia's third husband. Poor Donna 
 Tullia ! 
 
 Orsino went to his office with Contini and forced him- 
 self through the usual round of work. Occasionally he 
 was assailed by a mad desire to leave Eome at once, but 
 he opposed it and would not yield. Though his affairs 
 had gone well beyond his expectation the present crisis 
 
372 DON OESINO. 
 
 made it impossible to abandon his business, unless he 
 could get rid of it altogether. And this he seriously- 
 contemplated. He knew however, or thought he knew, 
 that Contini would be ruined without him. His own 
 name was the one which gave the paper its value and 
 decided Del Ferice to continue the advances of money. 
 The time was past when C(jntini would gladly have 
 accepted his partner's share of the undertaking, and 
 would evfn have tried to raise funds to purchase it. To 
 retire 38w would be possible only if he could provide for 
 the final liquidation of the whole, and this he could only 
 do by applying to his father or mother, in other words 
 by acknowledging himself completely beaten in his 
 struggle for independence. . 
 
 The day ended at last and was succeeded by the idle- 
 ness of Sunday. A sort of listless indifference came over 
 Orsino, the reaction, no doubt, after all the excitement 
 through which he had passed. It seemed to him that 
 Maria Consuelo had never loved him, and that it was 
 better after all that she should be gone. He longed for 
 the old days, indeed, but as she now appeared to him in 
 his meditations he did not wish her back. He had no 
 desire to renew the uncertain struggle for a love which 
 she denied in the end ; and this mood showed, no doubt, 
 that his own passion was less violent than he had himself 
 believed. When a man loves with his whole nature, 
 undividedly, he is not apt to submit to separations with- 
 out making a strong effort to reunite himself, by force, 
 persuasioi^ or stratagem, with the woman who is trying 
 to escape from him. Orsino was conscious of having at 
 first felt the inclination to make such an attempt even 
 more strongly than he had shown it, but he was con- 
 sciousalso that the interval of two days had been enough 
 to reduce the wish to follow Maria Consuelo in such a 
 way that he could hardly understand having ever enter- 
 tained it. 
 
 Unsatisfied passion wears itself out very soon. The 
 higher part of love may and often does survive in such 
 
DON OKSINO. 373 
 
 cases, and the passionate impulses may surge up after 
 long quiescence as fierce and dangerous as ever. But it 
 is rarely indeed that two unsatisfied lovers who have 
 parted by the will of the one or of both can meet again 
 without the consciousness that the experimental separa- 
 tion has chilled feelings once familiar and destroyed 
 illusions once more than dear. In older times, perhaps, 
 men and women loved differently. There wajgwrnore 
 solitude in those days than now, for what iSjcMed 
 society was not invented, and people generally weremore 
 inclined to sadness from living much alone. Melancholy 
 is a great strengthener of faithfulness in love. Moreover 
 at that time the modern fight for life had not begun, men 
 as a rule had few interests besides love and war, and 
 women no interests at all beyond love. We moderns 
 should go mad if we were suddenly forced to lead the 
 lives led by knights and ladies in the twelfth and thir- 
 teenth centuries. The monotonous round of such an 
 existence in time of peace would make idiots of us, the 
 horrors of that old warfare would make many of us ma- 
 niacs. But it is possible that youths and maidens would 
 love more faithfully and wait longer for each other than 
 they will or can to-day. It is questionable whether Bay- 
 ard would have understood a single page of a modern 
 love story, Tancred would certainly not have done so ; 
 but Caesar would have comprehended our lives and our 
 interests without effort, and Catullus could have de- 
 scribed us as we are, for one great civilization is very 
 like another where the same races are concerned. 
 
 In the days which followed Maria Consuelo's depart- 
 ure, Orsino came to a state of indifference which sur- 
 prised himself. He remembered that when she had gone 
 away in the spring he had scarcely missed her, and that 
 he had not thought his own coldness strange^, since he was 
 sure that he had not loved her then. But that he had 
 loved her now, during her last stay in Rome, he was sure, 
 and he would have despised himself if he had not been 
 able to believe that he loved her still. Yet, if he was 
 
374 DON OESINO. 
 
 uot glad that she had quitted him, he was at least 
 strangely satisfied at being left alone, and the old fancy 
 for analysis made him try to understand himself. The 
 attempt was fruitless, of course, but it occupied his 
 thoughts. 
 
 He met Spicca in the street, and avoided him. He 
 imagined that the old man must despise him for not 
 ha-djig resisted and followed Maria Consuelo after all. 
 Tl^hvpothesis was absurd and the conclusion vain, but 
 he OTmd not escape the idea, and it annoyed him. He 
 was probably ashamed of not having acted recklessly, as 
 a man should who is dominated by a master passion, and 
 yet he was inwardly glad that he had not been allowed 
 to yield to the first impulse. 
 
 The days succeeded each other and a week passed 
 away, bringing Saturday again and the necessity for a 
 visit to the bank. Business had been in a very bad state 
 since it had been known that Montevarchi was ruined. 
 So far, he had not stopped payment and although the 
 bank refused discount he had managed to find money 
 with which to meet his engagements. Probably, as San 
 Giacinto had foretold, he would pay everything and re- 
 main a very poor man indeed. But, although many per- 
 sons knew this, confidence was not restored. Del Ferice 
 declared that he believed Montevarchi solvent, as he 
 believed every one with whom his bank dealt to be sol- 
 vent to the uttermost centime, but that he could lend no 
 more money to any one on any condition whatsoever, 
 because neither he nor the bank had any to lend. Every 
 one, he said, had behaved honestly, and he proposed to 
 eclipse the honesty of every one by the frank acknowl- 
 edgment of his own lack of cash. He was distressed, 
 he said, overcome by the sufferings of his friends and 
 clients, ready to sell his house, his jewelry and his very 
 boots, in the' Eoman phrase, to accommodate every one ; 
 but he was conscious that the demand far exceeded any 
 supply which he could furnish, no matter at what per- 
 sonal sacrifice, and as it was therefore impossible to help 
 
DON ORSINO. 375 
 
 everybody, it would be unjust to help a few where all 
 were equally deserving. 
 
 In the meanwhile he proved the will of his deceased 
 wife, leaving him about four and a half millions of francs 
 unconditionally, and half a million more to be devoted to 
 some public charity at Ugo's discretion, for the repose of 
 Donna Tullia's unquiet spirit. It is needless to say that 
 the sorrowing husband determined to spend the legacy 
 magnificently in the improvement of the town represented 
 by him in parliament. A part of the improvement would 
 consist in a statue of Del Terice himself — representing 
 him, perhaps, as he had escaped from Eome, in the garb 
 of a Capuchin friar, but with the addition of an army 
 revolver to show that he had fought for Italian unity, 
 though when or where no man could tell. But it is worth 
 noting that while he protested his total inability to 
 discount any one's bills, Andrea Contini and Company 
 regularly renewed their acceptances when due- and signed 
 new ones for any amount of cash they required. The 
 accommodation was accompanied with a request that it 
 should not be mentioned. Orsino took the money indif- 
 ferently enough, conscious that he had three fortunes at 
 his back in case of trouble, but Contini grew more ner- 
 vous as time went on and the sums on paper increased 
 in magnitude, while the chances of disposing of the 
 buildings seemed reduced to nothing in the stagnation 
 which had already set in. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 At this time Count Spicca received a letter-from Maria 
 Consuelo, written from Nice and^^earing a postmark more 
 recent than the date which headed the page, a fact which 
 proved that the writer had either taken an unusually long 
 time in the composition or had withheld the missive sev- 
 eral days before finally despatching it. 
 
376 DON ORSINO. 
 
 " My Father — I write to inform you of certain things which 
 have recently taken place and which it is important that you 
 should know, and of which I should have the right to require 
 an explanation if 1 chose to ask it. Having been the author of 
 my life, you have miade yourself also the author of all my un- 
 happiness and of all my trouble. I have never understood the 
 cause of your intense hatred for nie, but I have felt its conse- 
 quences, even at a great distance from you, and you know well 
 enough that I return it with all my heart. Moreover I have 
 made up my mind that I will not be made to suffer by you any 
 longer. I tell you so quite frankly. This is a declaration of 
 war, and I will act upon it immediately. 
 
 " You are no doubt aware that Don Orsino Saracinesca has 
 for a long time been among my intimate friends. I will not 
 discuss the question, whether I did well to admit him to my 
 intimacy or not. That, at least, does not concern you. Even 
 admitting your power to exercise the most complete tyranny 
 over me in other ways, I am and have always been free to choose 
 my own acquaintances, and I am able to defend myself better 
 than most women, and as well as any. I will be just, too. 1 
 do not mean to reproach you with the consequences of what I 
 do. But I will not spare you where the results of your action 
 towards me are concerned. 
 
 " Don Orsino made love to me last spring. I loved him from 
 the first. I can hear your cruel laugh and see your contempt- 
 uous face as I write. But the information is necessary, and I 
 can bear your scorn because this is the last opportunity for such 
 diversion which I shall afford you, and because I mean that 
 you shall pay dearly for it. I loved Don Orsino, and I love 
 him still. You, of course, have never loved. You have hated, 
 however, and perhaps one passion may be the measure of an- 
 other. It is in my case, I can assure you, for the better I love, 
 the better I learn to hate you. 
 
 " Last Thursday Don Qrsino asked me to be his wife. I had 
 known fpr some jjme that he loved me and I knew that he 
 would speak of *^it before long. The day was sultry at first and 
 then there was a thunderstorm. My nerves were unstrung and 
 I lost my head. I told hmr that I loved him. That does not 
 concern you. I told him, alsoj however, that I had given a 
 solemn, promise to my dying ^usband, and 1 had still the 
 strength to say that I would not marry again. I meant to gain 
 time, I longed to be alone, I knew that I should yield, but I 
 would not yield blindly. Thank God, I was strong. I am like 
 
DON OEsnsro. 377 
 
 you in that, though happily not in any other way. You ask 
 me why I should even think of yielding. I answer that I love 
 Don Orsino better than I loved the man you murdered. There 
 is nothing humiliating in that, and I make the confession with- 
 out reserve. I love him better, and therefore, being human, I 
 would have broken my promise and married him, had marriage 
 been possible. But it is not, as you know. It is one thing to 
 turn to the priest as he stands by a dying man and to say. Pro- 
 nounce us man and wife, and give us a blessing, for the sake of 
 this man's rest. The priest knew that we were both free, and 
 took the responsibility upon himself, knowing also that the act 
 could- have no consequences in fact, whatever it might prove to 
 be in theory. It is quite another matter to be legally married 
 to Don Orsino Saracinesca, in the face of a strong op]feiition. 
 But I went home that evening, believing that it could be done 
 and that the opposition would vanish. I believed because I 
 loved. I love still, but what I learned that night has killed my 
 belief in an impossible happiness. 
 
 " I need not tell you all that passed between me and Lucrezia 
 Ferris. How she knew of what had happened I cannot tell. 
 She must have followed us to the apartment T was furnishing, 
 and she must have overheard what we said, or seen enough to 
 convince her. She is a spy. I suppose that is the reason why 
 she is imposed upon me, and always has been, since I can 
 remember — since I was born, she says. I found her waiting to 
 dress me as usual, and as usual I did not speak to her. She 
 spoke first. ' You will not marry Don Orsino Saracinesca,' she 
 said, facing me with her bad eyes. I could have struck her, 
 but I would not. I asked her what she meant. She told me 
 that she knew what I was doing, and asked me whether I was 
 aware that I needed documents in order to be married to a beg- 
 gar in Rome, and whether I supposed that the Saracinesca would 
 be inclined to overlook the absence of such papers, or could pass 
 a law of their own abolishing the ne cfigs ity for them, or, finally, 
 whether they would accept such cerMfi?||tes of my origin as she 
 could produce. She showed me a pa|kage. She, had nothing 
 better to offer me, she sai^, but such as she hadAshe heartily 
 placed at my disposal. I took"the^^!apers. I wasftrepared for 
 a shock, but not for the blow I*eceived. % 
 
 " You know what I read. The certificate of myftirth as the 
 daughter of Lucrezia Ferr;sw unmarried, by Qpunt Ipicca who 
 acknowle4ged the child as hil — and the certifiikte^o^our mar- 
 riage with Lucr^ia Ferris, daj^d— strangely#noi%h ai fortnight 
 
378 DON OKSINO. 
 
 after my birth — and further a document legitimizing me as the 
 lawful daughter of you two. All these documents are from 
 Monte Carlo. You will understand why I am in Nice. Yes — 
 they are all genuine, every one of them, as I have had no diffi- 
 culty in ascertaining. So I am the daughter of Luerezia Ferris, 
 born out of wedlock and subsequently whitewashed into a sort 
 of legitimacy. And Luerezia Ferris is lawfully th« Countess 
 Spicca. Luerezia Ferris, the cowardly spy-woman who more than 
 half controls my life, the lying, thieving-^ servant — she robs me at 
 every turn — the common, half educated Italian creature, — she 
 is my mother, she is that radiant being of whom you sometimes 
 spedfe: with tears in your eyes, she is that angel of whom I 
 remind you, she is that sweet influence that softened and 
 bright^fied your lonely life for a brief' space some %ree and 
 twenty years ago ! She has changed since then. ' 
 
 " And this is the mystery of my birth which you have con- 
 cealed from me, and which it was' at any moment in the power 
 of my vile mother to reveal. You cannot deny the fact, I sup- 
 pose, especially since I have taken the trouble to search the 
 registers and verify each separate document. 
 
 "I gave them all back to her, for I shall never need them. - 
 The woman — I mean my mother — was quite right. I shall not 
 marry Don Orsino Saracinesca. You have lied to me through- 
 out my life. You have always told me that my mother was 
 dead, and that I need not be ashamed of my birth, though you 
 wished it kept a secret. So far, I have obeyed you. In that 
 respect, and only in that, I will continue to act according to 
 your wishes. I am not called upon to proclaim to the world and 
 my acquaintance that I am the daughter of my own servant, and 
 that you were kind enough to marry your estimable mistress 
 after my birth in order to confer upon me what you dignify by 
 the name of legitimacy. No. That is not necessary. If it 
 could hurt you to proclaim it I ■would do so in the most public 
 way I could find. But i^Js folly to suppose that you could be 
 made to sufferbj^ siinpll a process. 
 
 " Are you^ware, my pSther, that you have ruined all my life 
 from the fiift ? Being soiad, you-^nust be intelligent and you 
 must realise what you ha^done, even if you have done it out 
 of pure lojfl of evil. You preluded to be kind to me, until I 
 was old eipugh to feel all the^ain you had in store for me. 
 But even Aien, after you had ^en the trouble to marry my 
 mother, \^y ^cf you give me aiBher name ? Was. that neces- 
 sary? I ^T!ii^ose*t was. I didjfeot understand then why iny 
 
DON OKSINO. 379 
 
 older companions looked askance at me in the convent, nor why 
 the nuns sometimes whispered together and looked at me. They 
 knew perhaps that no such name as mine existed. Since I was 
 your daughter why did.I not bear your name when I was a little 
 girl? You were ashamed to let it be known that you were 
 married, seeing what sort of wife you had taken, and you 
 found yourself in a dilemma. If you had acknowledged me as 
 your daughter in Austria, your friends in Rome would soon 
 have found out my existence — and the existence of your wife. 
 You were very cautious in those dajs, but you seem to have 
 grown careless of late, or you would not have left those papers 
 in the care of the Countess Spicca, my maid — and my mother. 
 I have heard that very bad men soon reach their second child- 
 hood an^.act foolishly. It is quite true. ■ 
 
 " Then, later, when you saw that I loved, and was loved, and 
 was to be happy, you came between my love and me. You 
 appeared in your own character as a liar, a slanderer and a 
 traitor. I loved a man who was brave, honourable, faithful — 
 reckless, perhaps, and wild as such men are — but devoted and 
 true. You came between us. You told me that he was false, 
 cowardly, an adventurer of the worst kind. Because I would 
 not believe^you, and would have married him in spite of you, 
 you killed him. Was it cowardly of him to face the first 
 swordsman in Europe ? They told me that he was not afraid of 
 you, the men who saw it, and that he fought you like a lion, as 
 he was. And the provocation, too! He never struck me. 
 He was showing me what he meant by a term in fencing — the 
 silver knife he held grazed pfiy cheek because I was startled and 
 moved. But you meant to kill him, and you chose to say that 
 he had struck me. Did you ever hear a harsh word from his 
 lips during those months of waiting ? When you had done your 
 work you fled — like the murderer you were arid are. But I 
 escaped from the woman who says she is my mother — and is — 
 and I went to him and found him-Jiffing and married him. 
 You used to tell me that he was an aa^^^pM^nd little better 
 than a beggar. Yet he left me a largHfortunerSj^ is as well 
 that he provided for me, since vo uJ jiave succeedea in losing 
 most of your own money at play — Soubtless to instre my not 
 profiting by it at your death. J'&t that you will dV — men of 
 your kind outlive their victims, because they kp. them 
 
 " And now, when you" saw— ^r you did see it — whA you saw 
 and knew tjiat Orsino SaracinBsca and I loverf*B^hMher, you 
 have broken my life a second time. You m^t SW^sily have 
 
380 DON OESINO. 
 
 gone to him, or have come to me, at the first, with the truth. 
 You know that I should never forgive you for what you had done 
 already. A little more could have made matters no worse then. 
 You knew that Don Orsino would have thanked you as a friend 
 for the warning. Instead — I refuse to believe you in your 
 dotage after all — you make that woman spy upon me until the 
 great moment is come, you give her the weapons and you bid 
 her strike when the blow will be most excruciating. You are 
 not a man. You are Satan. I parted twice from the man I 
 love. He would not let me go, and he came back and tried to 
 keep me — I do not know how I escaped. God helped me. He 
 is so brave and noble that if he had held those accursed papers 
 in his hands and known all the truth he would not have given 
 me lip. He would have brought a stain on his great name, and 
 shame upon his great house for my sake. He is not like you. I 
 parted from him twice, I know all that I can suifer, and I hate 
 you for each individual suffering, great and small. 
 
 " I have dismissed my mother from my service. How that 
 would sound in Rome ! I have given her as much money as she 
 can expect and I have got rid of her. She said that she would 
 not go, that she would write to you, and many other things. 
 I told her that if she attempted to stay I would go to the author- 
 ities, prove that she was my mother, provide for her, if the law 
 required it and have her forcibly turned out of miy house by the 
 aid of the same law. I am of age, married, independent, and I 
 cannot be obliged to entertain my mother either in the character 
 of a servant, or as a visitor. I suppose she has a right to a 
 lodging under your roof. I hope she will take advantage of it, 
 as I advised her. She took the money and went away, cursing 
 me. I think that if she had ever, in all my life, shown the 
 smallest affection for me — even at the last, when she declared 
 herself my mother, if she had shown a spark of motherly feel- 
 ing, of tenderness, of anything human, I could have accepted 
 her and tolerated her, h^ peasant woman as she is, spy as she 
 has been, and cheat aij^tljef. But she stood before me with the 
 most perfe^tiHifferenoe, watching my surprise with those bad 
 eyes of he|^ I wonder why I have borne her presence so long. 
 I suppose m had never s'C^ll^k me that I could get rid of her, in 
 spite of yafe if I chose. Bytijp bye, I sent for a notary when I 
 paid her, |fnd I got a legal receipt signed with her legal name, 
 LucreziaiSpicca, nata Ferris. 'Abe document formally releases 
 me fromfall further claims, flpope you will unde^'stand that 
 you havWncf po^er whatsoever^o impose her upon me again, 
 
DON ORSINO. 381 
 
 though I confess that I am expecting your next move with inter- 
 est. I suppose that you have not done with me yet, and have 
 some new means of torment in reserve. Satan is rarely idle 
 long. 
 
 " And now I have done. If you were not the villain you are, 
 I should expect you to go to the man whose happiness I have 
 endangered, if not destroyed. I should expect you to tell Don 
 Orsino Saracinesca enough of the truth to make him under- 
 stand my action. But I know you far too well to imagine that 
 you would willingly take from my life one thorn of the many 
 you have planted in it. I will write to Don Orsino myself. I 
 think you need not fear him — I am sorry that you need not. 
 But I shall not tell him more than is necessary. You will re- 
 member, I hope, that such discretion as I may show, is not 
 shown out of consideration for you, but out of forethought for 
 my own welfare. I have unfortunately no means of preventing 
 you from writing to me, but you may be sure that your letters 
 will never be read, so that you will do as well to spare yourself 
 the trouble of composing them. 
 
 "Maria Consublo d'Aeajstjuez." 
 
 Spicca received this letter early in the morning, and 
 at mid-day he still sat in his chair, holding it in his 
 hand. His face was very white, his head hung forward 
 upon his breast, his thin fingers were stiffened upon the 
 thin paper. Only the hardly perceptible rise and fall of 
 the chest showed that he still breathed. 
 
 The clocks had already struck twelve when his old 
 servant entered the room, a being thin, wizened, grey 
 and noiseless as the ghost of a greyhound. He stood 
 still a moment before his master, expecting that he 
 would look up, then bent anxiously over him and felt 
 his hands. 
 
 Spicca slowly raised his sunken eyes. 
 
 "It will pass, Santi— it will pass," he said feebly. 
 
 Then he began to fold up the sheets slowly and with 
 difficulty, but very neatly, as men of extraordinary skill 
 with their hands do everything. Santi looked at him 
 doubtfully and then got a glass and a bottle of cordial 
 from a small carved press in the corner. Spicca drank 
 
382 DON ORSINO. 
 
 the liqueur slowly and set the glass steadily upon the 
 table. 
 
 "Bad news, Signer Conte?" asked the servant anx- 
 iously, and in a way which betrayed at once the kindly 
 relations existing between the two. 
 
 " Very bad news," Spicca answered sadly and shaking 
 his head. 
 
 Santi sighed, restored the cordial to the press and took 
 up the glass, as though he were about to leave the room. 
 But he still lingered near the table, glancing uneasily at 
 his master as though he had something to say, but was 
 hesitating to begin. 
 
 " What is it, Santi ? " asked the count. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Signor Conte — you have had bad 
 news — if you will allow me to speak, there are several 
 small economies which could still be managed without 
 too much inconveniencing you. Pardon the liberty, 
 Signor Conte." 
 
 " I know, I know. But it is not money this time. I 
 wish it were." 
 
 Santi's expression immediately lost much of its anxi- 
 ety. He had shared his master's fallen fortunes and 
 knew better than he what he meant by a few more small 
 economies, as he called them. 
 
 "God be praised, Signor Conte," he said solemnly. 
 " May I serve the breakfast ? " 
 
 "I have no appetite, Santi. Go and eat yourself." 
 
 " A little something ? " Santi spoke in a coaxing 
 way. "I have prepared a little mixed fry, with toast, 
 as you like it, Signor Conte, and the salad is good to-day 
 — ham and figs are also in the house. Let me lay the 
 cloth — when you see, you will eat — and just one egg 
 beaten up with a glass of red wine to begin — that will 
 dispose the stomach." 
 
 Spicca shook his head again, but Santi paid no atten- 
 tion to the refusal and went about preparing the meal. 
 When it was ready the old man suffered himself to be 
 persuaded and ate a little. He was in reality stronger 
 
DON ORSINO. 383 
 
 than he looked, and an extraordinary nervous energy- 
 still lurked beneath the appearance of a feebleness 
 almost amounting to decrepitude. The little nourish- 
 ment he took sufficed to restore the balance, and when 
 he rose from the table, he was outwardly almost himself 
 again. When a man has suffered great moral pain for 
 years, he bears a new shock, even the worst, better than 
 one who is hard hit in the midst of a placid and long 
 habitual happiness. The soul can be taught to bear 
 trouble as the great self mortifiers of an earlier time 
 taught their bodies to- bear scourging. The process is 
 painful but hardening. 
 
 " I feel better, Santi," said Spicca. « Your breakfast 
 has done me good. You are an excellent doctor." 
 
 He turned away and took out his pocket-book — not 
 over well garnished. He found a ten franc note. Then 
 he looked round and spoke in a gentle, kindly tone. 
 
 "Santi — this trouble has nothing to do with money. 
 You need a new pair of shoes, I am sure. Do you think 
 that ten francs is enough ? " 
 
 Santi bowed respectfully and took the money. 
 
 " A thousand thanks, Signor Conte," he said. 
 
 Santi was a strange man, from the heart of the Ab- 
 ruzzi. He pocketed the note, but that night, when he 
 had undressed his master and was arranging the things 
 on the dressing table, the ten francs found their way 
 back into the black pocket-book. Spicca never counted, 
 and never knew. 
 
 He did not write to Maria Consuelo, for he was well 
 aware that in her present state of mind she would un- 
 doubtedly burn his letter unopened, as she had said she 
 would. Late in the day he went out, walked for an 
 hour, entered the club and read, the papers, and at last 
 betook himself to the restaurant where Orsino dined 
 when his people were out of town. 
 
 In due time, Orsino appeared, looking pale and ill 
 tempered. He caught sight of Spicca and went at once 
 to the table where he sat. 
 
384 DON OESINO. 
 
 " I have had a letter," said the young man. " I must 
 speak to you. If you do not object, we will dine together." 
 
 " By all means. There is nothing like a thoroughly 
 bad dinner to promote ill-feeling." 
 
 Orsino glanced at the old man in momentary surprise. 
 But he knew his ways tolerably well, and was familiar 
 with the chronic acidity of his speech. 
 
 "You probably guess who has written to me," Orsino 
 resumed. "It was natural, perhaps, that she should 
 have something to say, but what she actually says, is 
 more than I was prepared to hear." 
 
 Spicca's eyes grew less dull and he turned an inquir- 
 ing glance on his companion. 
 
 " When I tell you that in this letter, Madame d'Aran- 
 juez has confided to me the true story of her origin, I 
 have probably said enough," continued the young man. 
 
 "You have said too much or too little," Spicca an- 
 swered in an almost indifferent tone. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Unless you tell me just what she has told you, or 
 show me the letter, I cannot possibly judge of the truth 
 of the tale." 
 
 Orsino raised his head angrily. 
 
 "Do you mean me to doubt that Madame d'Aranjuez 
 speaks the truth ? " he asked. 
 
 "Calm yourself. Whatever Madame d'Aranjuez has 
 written to you, she believes to be true. But she may have 
 been herself deceived." "' 
 
 " In spite of documents— ^public registers " 
 
 " Ah ! Then she has told you about those certificates ? " 
 
 " That — and a great deal more which concerns you." 
 
 "Precisely. A great deal more. I know all about the 
 registers, as you may easily suppose, seeing that they 
 concern two somewhat important acts in my own life and 
 thati was very careful to have those acts properly recorded, 
 beyond the possibility of denial — beyond the possibility 
 of denial," he repeated very slowly and emphatically. 
 " Do you understand that ? " 
 
DON ORSINO. 385 
 
 " It would not enter the mind of a sane person to doubt 
 such evidence/' answered Orsino rather scornfully. 
 
 "No, I suppose not. As you do not therefore come to 
 me for confirmation of what is already undeniable, I can- 
 not understand why you come to me at all in this matter, 
 unless you do so on account of other things which Madame 
 d'Aranjuez-has written you, and of which you have so far 
 kept me in ignorance." 
 
 Spicca spoke with a formal manner and in cold tones, 
 drawing up his bent figure a little. A waiter came to the 
 table and both men ordered their dinner. The interrup- 
 tion rather favoured the development of a hostile feeling 
 between them, than otherwise. 
 
 "I will explain my reasons for coming to find you 
 here," said Orsino when they were again alone. 
 
 " So far as I am concerned, no explanation is necessary. 
 I am content not to understand. Moreover, this is a 
 public place, in which we have accidentally met and dined 
 together before." 
 
 " I did not come here by accident," answered Orsino. 
 "And I did not come in order to give explanations but 
 to ask for one." 
 
 " Ah ? " Spicca eyed him coolly. 
 "Yes. I wish to know why you have hated your 
 daughter all her life, why you persecute her in every 
 
 way, why you " 
 
 " Will you kindly stop ? " 
 
 The old man's voice grew suddenly clear and incisive, 
 and Orsino broke off in the middle of his sentence. A 
 moment's pause followed. 
 
 " I requested you to stop speaking," Spicca resumed, 
 "because you were unconsciously making statements which 
 have no foundation whatever in fact. Observe that I 
 say, unconsciously. You are completely mistaken. I do 
 not hate Madame d'Aranjuez. I love her with all my 
 heart and soul. I do not persecute her in every way, 
 nor in any way. On the contrary, her happiness is the 
 only object of such life as I still have to live, and I have 
 
 2c 
 
386 DON OBSINO. 
 
 little but that life left to give her. I am in earnest, 
 Orsino." 
 
 " I see you are. That makes what you say all the 
 more surprising." 
 
 "No doubt it does. Madame d'Aranjuez has just 
 written to you, and you have her letter in your pocket. 
 She has told you in that letter a number of facts in her 
 own life, as she sees them, and you look at them as she 
 does. It is natural. To her and to you, I appear to be 
 a monster of evil, a hideous incarnation of cruelty, a devil_ 
 in short. Did she call me a devil in her letter ? " 
 
 "She did." 
 
 " Precisely. She has also written to me, informing me 
 that I am Satan. There is a directness in the statement 
 and a general disregard of probability which is not with- 
 out charm. Nevertheless, I am Spicca, and not Beelzebub, 
 her assurances to the contrary notwithstanding. You see 
 how views may differ. You know much of her life, but 
 you know nothing of mine, nor is it my intention to tell 
 you anything about myself. But I will tell you this 
 much. If I could do anything to mend matters, I would. 
 If I could make it possible for you to marry Madame 
 d'Aranjuez — ^being what you are, and fenced in as you 
 are, I would. If I could tell you all the rest of the truth, 
 which she does not know, nor dream of, I would. I am 
 bound by a very solemn promise of secrecy — by something 
 more than a promise in fact. Yet, if I could do good to 
 her by breaking oaths, betraying confidence and trampling 
 on the deepest obligations which can bind a man, I would. 
 But that good cannot be done any more. That is all I can 
 tell you." 
 
 "It is little enough. You could, and you can, tell the 
 whole truth, as you call it, to Madame d'Aranjuez. I 
 would advise you to do so, instead of embittering her 
 life at every turn." 
 
 " I have not asked for your advice, Orsino. That she 
 is unhappy, I know. That she hates me, is clear. She 
 would not be the happier for hating me less, since nothing 
 
DON OESINO. 387 
 
 else would be changed. She need not think of me, if the 
 subject is disagreeable. In all other respects she is 
 perfectly free. She is young, rich, and at liberty to go 
 where she pleases and to do what she likes. So long as 
 I am alive, I shall watch over her " 
 
 "And destroy every chance of happiness which pre- 
 sents itself," interrupted Orsino. 
 
 "I gave you some idea, the other night, of the happi- 
 ness she might have enjoyed with the deceased Aranjuez. 
 If I made a mistake in regard to what I saw him do — I 
 admit the possibility of an error — I was nevertheless 
 quite right in ridding her of the man. I have atoned 
 for the mistake, if we call it so, in a way of which you 
 do not dream, nor she either. The good remains, for 
 Aranjuez is buried." 
 
 "You speak of secret atonement — I was not aware that 
 you ever suffered from remorse." 
 
 "Nor I," answered Spicca drily. 
 
 " Then what do you mean ? " 
 
 " You are questioning me, and I have warned you that 
 I will tell you nothing about myself. You will confer a 
 great favour upon me by not insisting." 
 
 "Are you threatening me again ? " 
 
 "I am not doing anything of the kind. I never 
 threaten any one. I could kill you as easily as I killed 
 Aranjuez, old and decrepit as I look, and I should be 
 perfectly indifferent to the opprobrium of killing so 
 young a man — though I think that, looking at us two, 
 many people might suppose the advantage to be on your 
 side rather than on mine. But young men nowadays do 
 not learn to handle arms. Short of laying violent hands 
 upon me, you will find it quite impossible to provoke me. 
 I am almost old enough to be your grandfather, and I 
 understand you very well. You love Madame d' Aran- 
 juez. She knows that to- marry you would be to bring 
 about such a quarrel with your family as might ruin half 
 your life, and she has the rare courage to tell you so and 
 to refuse youroffer. You think that I can do something 
 
388 coir oRsmo. 
 
 to help you and you are incensed because I am power- 
 less, and furious because I object to your leaving Eome 
 in the same train with her, against her will. You are 
 more furious still to-day because you have adopted her 
 belief that I am a monster of iniquity. Observe — that, 
 apart from hindering you from a great piece of folly the 
 other day, I have never interfered. I do not interfere 
 now. As I said then, follow her if you please, persuade 
 her to marry you if you can, quarrel with all your family 
 if you like. It is nothing to me. Publish the banns of 
 your marriage on the doors of the Capitol and declare to 
 the whole world that Madame d'Aranjuez, the future 
 Princess Saracinesca, is the daughter of Count Spicca and 
 Lucrezia Ferris, his lawful wife. There will be a little 
 talk, but it will not hurt me. People have kept their 
 marriages a secret for a whole lifetime before now. I do 
 not care what you do, nor what the whole tribe of the 
 Saracinesca may do, provided, that none of you do harm 
 to Maria Consuelo, nor bring useless suffering upon her. 
 If any of you do that, I will kill you. That at least is 
 a threat, if you like. Good-night." 
 
 Thereupon Spicca rose suddenly from his seat, leaving 
 his dinner unfinished, and went out. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Orsino did not leave Eome after all. He was not in 
 reality prevented from doing so by the necessity of 
 attending to his business, for he might assuredly have 
 absented himself for a week or two at almost any time 
 before the new year, without incurring any especial 
 danger. From time to time, at ever increasing inter- 
 vals, he felt strongly impelled to rejoin Maria Consuelo 
 in Paris where she had ultimately determined to spend 
 the autumn and winter, but the impulse always lacked 
 
DON ORSINO. 389 
 
 just the measure of strength which would have made it a 
 resolution. When he thought of his many hesitations he 
 did not understand himself and he fell in his own estima- 
 tion, so that he became by degrees more silent and mel- 
 ancholy of disposition than had originally been natural 
 with him. 
 
 He had much time for reflection and he constantly 
 brooded over the situation in which he found himself. 
 The question seemed to be, whether he loved Maria 
 Consuelo or not, since he was able to display such appar- 
 ent indifference to her absence. In reality he also doubted 
 whether he was loved by her, and the one uncertainty was 
 fully as great as the other. 
 
 He went over all that had passed. The position had 
 never been an easy one, and the letter which Maria 
 Consuelo had written to him after her departure had not 
 made it easier. It had contained the revelations concern- 
 ing her birth, together with many references to Spicca's 
 continued cruelty, plentifully supported by statements 
 of facts. She had then distinctly told Orsino that she 
 would never marry him, under any circumstances what- 
 ever, declaring that if he followed her she would not 
 even see him. She would not ruin his life and plunge 
 him into a life long quarrel with his family, she said, and 
 she added that she would certainly not expose herself to 
 such treatment as she would undoubtedly receive at the 
 hands of the Saracinesca if she married Orsino without 
 his parents' consent. 
 
 A man does not easily believe that he is deprived of 
 what he most desires exclusively for his own good and 
 welfare, and the last sentence quoted wounded Orsino 
 deeply. He believed himself ready to incur the displeas- 
 ure of all his people for Maria Consuelo's sake, and he 
 said in his heart that if she loved him she should be 
 ready to bear as much as he. The language in which she 
 expressed herself, too, was cold and almost incisive. 
 
 Unlike Spicca Orsino answered this letter, writing in 
 an argumentative strain, bringing the best reasons he 
 
390 DON OESINO. 
 
 could find to bear against those she alleged, and at last 
 reproaching her with not being willing to suffer for his 
 sake a tenth part of what he would endure for her. But 
 he announced his intention of joining her before long, and 
 expressed the certainty that she would receive him. 
 
 To this Maria Consuelo made no reply for some time. 
 When she wrote at last, it was to say that she had care- 
 fully considered her decision and saw no good cause for 
 changing it. To Orsino her tone seemed colder and more 
 distant than ever. The fact that the pages were blotted 
 here and there and that the handwriting was unsteady, 
 was probably to be referred to her carelessness. He 
 brooded over his misfortune, thought more than once of 
 making a desperate effort to win back her love, and re- 
 mained in Rome. After a long interval he wrote to her 
 again. This time he produced an epistle which, under 
 the circumstances, might have seemed almost ridiculous. 
 It was full of indifferent gossip about society, it contained 
 a few sarcastic remarks about his own approaching fail- 
 ure, with some rather youthfully cynical observations on 
 the instability of things in general and the hoUowness of 
 all aspirations whatsoever. 
 
 He received no answer, and duly repented the flippant 
 tone he had taken. He would have been greatly surprised 
 could he have learned that this last letter was destined 
 to produce a greater effect upon his life than all he had 
 written before it. 
 
 In the meanwhile his father, who had heard of the in- 
 creasing troubles in the world of business, wrote him in 
 a constant strain of warning, to which he paid little at- 
 tention. His mother's letters, too, betrayed her anxiety, 
 but expressed what his father's did not, to wit the most 
 boundless confidence in his power to extricate himself 
 honourably from all difficulties, together with the assur- 
 ance that if worst came to worst she was always ready to 
 help him. 
 
 Suddenly and without warning old Saracinesca returned 
 from his wanderings. He had taken the trouble to keep 
 
DON ORSINO. 391 
 
 the family informed of his movements by his secretary 
 during two or three months and had then temporarily 
 allowed them to lose sight of him, thereby causing them 
 considerable 'anxiety, though an occasional paragraph in 
 a newspaper reassured them from time to time. Then, 
 on a certain afternoon in JSTovember, he appeared, alone 
 and in a cab, as though he had been out for a stroll. 
 
 "Well, my boy, are you ruined yet?" he inquired, 
 entering Orsino's room without ceremony. 
 
 The young man started from his seat and took the old 
 gentleman's rough hand, with an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Yes— you may well look at me," laughed the Prince. 
 "I have grown ten years younger. And you?" He 
 pushed his grandson into the light and scrutinised his 
 face fiercely. "And you are ten years older," he con- 
 cluded, in a discontented tone. 
 
 " I did not know it," answered Orsino with an attempt 
 at a laugh. 
 
 " You have been at some mischief. I know it. I can 
 see it." 
 
 He dropped the young fellow's arm, shook his head 
 and began to move about the room. Then he came back 
 all at once and looked up into Orsino's face from beneath 
 his bushy eyebrows. 
 
 " Out with it, I mean to know ! " he said, roughly but 
 not unkindly. " Have you lost money ? Are you ill ? 
 Are you in love ? " 
 
 Orsino would certainly have resented the first and the 
 last questions, if not all three, had they been put to him 
 by his father. There was something in the old Prince's 
 nature, something warmer and more human, which ap- 
 pealed to his own. Sant' Ilario was, and always had 
 been, outwardly cold, somewhat measured in his speech, 
 undemonstrative, a man not easily moved to much expres- 
 sion or to real sympathy except by love, but capable, 
 under that influence, of going to great lengths. And 
 Orsino, though in some respects resembling his mother 
 rather than his father, was not unlike the latter, with a 
 
392 DON OBSINO. 
 
 larger measure of ambition and less real pride. It was 
 probably the latter characteristic which made him feel 
 the need of sympathy in a way his father had never 
 felt it and could never understand it, and he was thereby 
 drawn more closely to his mother and to his grand- 
 father than to Sant' Ilario. 
 
 Old Saracinesca evidently meant to be answered, as he 
 stood there gazing into Orsino's eyes. 
 
 "A great deal has happened since you went away," 
 said Orsino, half wishing that he could tell everything. 
 " In the first place, business is in a very bad state, and I 
 am anxious." 
 
 "Dirty work, business," grumbled Saracinesca. "I 
 always told you so. Then you have lost money, you 
 young idiot! I thought so. Did you think you were 
 any better than Montevarchi ? I hope you have kept 
 your name out of the market, at all events. What in the 
 name of heaven made you put your hand to such filth ! 
 Come — how much do you want ? We will whitewash 
 you and you shall start to-morrow and go round the 
 world." 
 
 " But I am not in actual need of money at all " 
 
 " Then what the devil are you in need of ? " 
 
 "An improvement 'in business, and the assurance that 
 I shall not ultimately be bankrupt." 
 
 " If money is not an assurance that you will not be 
 bankrupt, I would like to learn what is. All this is 
 nonsense. Tell me the truth, my boy — you are in love. 
 That is the trouble." 
 
 Orsino shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I have been in love some time," he answered. 
 
 "Young? Old? Marriageable? Married? Out with 
 it, I say ! " 
 
 " I would rather talk about business. I think it is all 
 over now." 
 
 " Just like your father — always full of secrets ! As if 
 I did not know all about it. You are in love with that 
 Madame d'Aranjuez." 
 
DON ORSINO. 393 
 
 Orsino turned a little pale. 
 
 "Please do not call her 'that' Madame d'Aranjuez," 
 he said, gravely. 
 
 " Eh ? What ? Are you so sensitive about her ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " You are ? Very well— I like that. What about 
 her ? " 
 
 " What a question ! " 
 
 "I mean — is she indifferent, cold, in love with some 
 one else ? "' 
 
 " !N"ot that I am aware. She has refused to marry me 
 and has left Eome, that is all." 
 
 " Eefused to marry you ! " cried old Saracinesca in 
 boundless astonishment. " My dear boy, you must be out 
 of your mind ! The thing is impossible. You are the 
 best match in Rome. Madame d'Aranjuez refuse you — 
 absolutely incredible, not to be believed for a moment. 
 You are dreaming. A widow — without much fortune — 
 the relict of some curious adventurer — a woman looking 
 for a fortune, a woman " 
 
 " Stop ! " cried Orsino, savagely. 
 
 " Oh yes — I forgot. You are sensitive. Well, well, I 
 meant nothing against her, except that she must be in- 
 sane if what you tell me is true. Biit I am glad of it, 
 my boy, very glad. She is no match for you, Orsino. I 
 confess, I wish you would marry at once. T would like 
 to see my great grandchildren — but not Madame d'Aran- 
 juez. A widow, too." 
 
 " My father married a widow." 
 
 " When you find a widow like your mother, and ten 
 years younger than yourself, marry her if you can. But 
 not Madame d'Aranjuez — older than you by several 
 years." 
 
 " A few years." 
 
 " Is that all ? It is too much, though. And who is 
 Madame d'Aranjuez ? Everybody was asking the ques- 
 tion last winter. I suppose she had a name before she 
 married, and since you have been trying to make her 
 
394 DON OBSINO. 
 
 your wife, you must know all about her. Who was 
 she ? " 
 
 Orsino hesitated. 
 
 " You see ! " cried the old Prince. " It is not all 
 right. There is a secret — there is something wrong 
 about her family, or about her entrance into the world. 
 She knows perfectly well that we would never receive 
 her and has concealed it all from you " 
 
 " She has not concealed it. She has told me the exact 
 truth. But I shall not repeat it to you." 
 
 " All the stronger proof that everything is not right. 
 You are well out of it, my boy, exceedingly well out of 
 it. I congratulate you." 
 
 " I would rather not be congratulated." 
 
 " As you please. I am sorry for you, if you are un- 
 happy. Try and forget all about it. How is your 
 mother ? " 
 
 At any other time Orsino would have laughed at the 
 characteristic abruptness. 
 
 "Perfectly well, I believe. I have not seen her all 
 summer," he answered gravely. 
 
 "Not been to Saracinesca all summer! No wonder 
 you look ill. Telegraph to them that I have come back 
 and let us get the family together as soon as possible. 
 Do you think I mean to spend six months alone in your 
 company, especially when you are away all day at that 
 wretched of&ce of yours ? Be quick about it — telegraph 
 at once." 
 
 "Very well. But please do not repeat anything of 
 what I have told you to my father or my mother. That 
 is the only thing I have to ask." 
 
 "Am I a parrot ? I never talk to them of your 
 affairs." 
 
 " Thanks. I am grateful." 
 
 " To heaven because your grandfather is not a para- 
 keet ! No doubt. You have good cause. And look 
 here, Orsino- " 
 
 The old man took Orsino's arm and held it firmly, 
 speaking in a lower tone. 
 
DON ORSINO. 395 
 
 " Do not make an ass of yourself, my boy — especially 
 in business. But if you do — and you probably will, you 
 know — just come to me, without speaking to any one else. 
 I will see what can be done without noise. There — take 
 that, and forget all about your troubles and get a little 
 more colour into your face." 
 
 '' You are too good to me," said Orsino, grasping the old 
 Prince's hand. For once, he was really moved. 
 
 " Nonsense — go and send that telegram at once. I do 
 not want to be kept waiting a week for a sight of my 
 family." 
 
 With a deep, good humoured laugh he pushed Orsino 
 out of the door in front of him and went off to his own 
 quarters. 
 
 In due time the family returned from Saracinesca and 
 the gloomy old palace waked to life again. Corona and 
 her husband were both struck by the change in Orsino's 
 appearance, which indeed contrasted strongly with their 
 own, refreshed and strengthened as they were by the keen 
 mountain air, the endless out-of-door life, the manifold 
 occupations of people deeply interested in the welfare of 
 those around them and supremely conscious of their own 
 power to produce good results in their own way. When 
 they all came back, Orsino himself felt how jaded and 
 worn he was as compared with them. 
 
 Before twelve hours had gone by, he found himself 
 alone with his mother. Strange to say he had not looked 
 forward to the interview with pleasure. The bond of 
 sympathy which had so closely united the two during the 
 spring seemed weakened, and Orsino would, if possible, 
 have put off the renewal of intimate converse which he 
 knew to be inevitable. But that could not be done. 
 
 It would not be hard to find reasons for his wishing to 
 avoid his mother. Formerly his daily tale had been one 
 of success, of hope, of ever increasing confidence. Now he 
 had nothing to tell of but danger and anxiety for the 
 future, and he was not without a suspicion that she would 
 strongly disapprove of his allowing himself to be kept 
 
396 DON OKSINO. 
 
 afloat by Del Ferice's personal influence, and perhaps by 
 his personal aid. It was hard to begin daily intercourse 
 on a basis of things so different from that which had 
 seemed solid and safe when they had last talked together. 
 He had learned to bear his own troubles bravely, too, and 
 there was something which he associated with weakness 
 in the idea of asking sympathy for them now. He would 
 rather have been left alone. 
 
 Deep down, too, was the consciousness of all that had 
 happened between himself and Maria Consuelo since his 
 mother's departure. Another suffering, another and dis- 
 tinctly different misfortune, to be borne better in silence 
 than under question even of the most affectionate kind. 
 His grandfather had indeed guessed at both truths and 
 had taxed him with them at once, but that was quite 
 another matter. He knew that the old gentleman would 
 never refer again to what he had learned, and he appre- 
 ciated the generous offer of help, of which he would 
 never avail himself, in a way in which he could not appre- 
 ciate an assistance even more lovingly proffered, perhaps, 
 but which must be asked for by a confession of his own 
 failure. 
 
 On the other hand, he was incapable of distorting the 
 facts in any way so as to make his mother btelieve him 
 more successful than he actually was. There was nothing 
 dishonest, perhaps, in pretending to be hopeful when he 
 really had little hope, but he could not have represented 
 the condition of the business otherwise than as it really 
 stood. 
 
 The interviaw was a long one, and Corona's dark face 
 grew grave if not despondent as he explained to her one 
 point after another, taking especial care to elucidate all 
 that bore upon his relations with Del Ferice. It was most 
 important that his mother should understand how he was 
 placed, and how Del Ferice's continued advances of money 
 were not to be regarded in the light of a personal favour, 
 but as a speculation in which Ugo would probably get the 
 best of the bargain. Orsino knew how sensi tive his mothe? 
 
DON ORSINO. 397 
 
 •would be on such a point, and dreaded the moment when 
 she should begin to think that he was laying himself under 
 obligations beyond the strict limits of business. 
 
 Corona leaned, back in her low seat and covered her 
 eyes with one hand for a moment, in deep thought. 
 Orsino waited anxiously for her to speak. 
 
 " My dear," she said at last, " you make it very clear, 
 and I understand you perfectly. Nevertheless, it seems to 
 me that your position is not very dignified, considering 
 who you are, and what Del Ferice is. Do you not think 
 so yourself ? " 
 
 Orsino flushed a little. She had not put the point as 
 he had expected, and her words told upon him. 
 
 "When I entered business, I put my dignity in my 
 pocket," he answered, with a forced laugh. " There cannot 
 be much of it in business, at the best." 
 
 His mother's black eyes seemed to grow blacker, and 
 the delicate nostril quivered a little. 
 
 " If that is true, I wish you had never meddled in these 
 affairs," she said, proudly. " But you talked differently 
 last spring, and you made me see it all in another way. 
 You made me feel, on the contrary that in doing something 
 for yourself, in showing that you were able to accomplish 
 something, in asserting your independence, you were 
 making yourself more worthy of respect — and I have 
 respected you accordingly." 
 
 "Exactly," answered Orsino, catching at the old argu- 
 ment. " That is just what I wished to do. What I said 
 a moment since was in the way of a generality. Business 
 means a struggle for money, I suppose, and that, in itself, 
 is not dignified. But it is not dishonourable. After all, 
 the means may justify the end." 
 
 " I hate that saying ! " exclaimed Corona hotly. " I 
 wish you were free of the whole affair." 
 
 " So do I, with all my heart ! " 
 
 A short silence followed. 
 
 "If I had known all this three months ago," Corona 
 resumed, " I would have taken the money and given it to 
 
398 DON OESINO. 
 
 you, to clear yourself. I thought you were succeeding 
 and I have used all the funds I could gather to buy the 
 Montevarchi's property between us and Affile and in 
 planting eucalyptus trees in that low land of mine where 
 the people have suffered so much from fever. I have 
 nothing at my disposal unless I borrow. Why did you 
 not tell me the truth in the summer, Orsino ? Why have 
 you let me imagine that you were prospering all along, 
 when you have been and are at the point of failure ? It 
 is too bad " 
 
 She broke off suddenly and clasped her hands together 
 on her knee. 
 
 " It is only lately that business has gone so badly," said 
 Orsino. 
 
 " It was all wrong from the beginning ! I should never 
 have encouraged you. Your father was right, as he 
 always is — and now you must tell him so." 
 
 But Orsino refused to go to his father, except in the 
 last extremity. He represented that it was better, and 
 more dignified, since Corona insisted upon the point of 
 dignity, to fight the battle alone so long as there was a 
 chance of winning. His mother, on the other hand, main- 
 tained that he should free himself at once and at any cost. 
 A few months earlier he could easily have persuaded her 
 that he was right ; but she seemed changed since he had 
 parted from her, and he fancied that his father's influence 
 had been at work with her. This he resented bitterly. 
 It must be remembered, too, that he had begun the inter- 
 view with a preconceived prejudice, expecting it to turn 
 out badly, so that he was the more ready to allow matters 
 to take an unfavourable turn. 
 
 The result was not a decided break in his relations with 
 his mother, but a state of things more irritating than any 
 open difference could have been. From that time Corona 
 discouraged him, and never ceased to advise him to go to 
 his father and ask frankly for enough money to clear him 
 outright. Orsino, on his part, obstinately refused to 
 apply to any one for help, as long as Del Ferioe continued 
 to advance him money. 
 
DON OESINO. 899 
 
 In those months -which followed there were few indeed 
 who did not suffer in the almost universal financial cata- 
 clysm. All that Contini and others, older and wiser than 
 he, had predicted, took place, and more also. The banks 
 refused discount, even upon the best paper, saying with 
 justice that they were obliged to hold their funds in 
 reserve at such a time. The works stopped almost every- 
 where. It was impossible to raise money. Thousands 
 upon thousands of workmen who had come from great 
 distances during the past two or three years were suddenly 
 thrown out of work, penniless in the streets and many 
 of them burdened with wives and children. There were 
 one or two small riots and there was much demonstration, 
 but, on the whole, the poor masons behaved very well. 
 The government and the municipality did what they could 
 — ^what governments and municipalities can do when 
 hampered at every turn by the most complicated and ill- 
 considered machinery of administration ever invented in 
 any country. The starving workmen were by slow degrees 
 got out of the city and sent back to starve out of sight 
 in their native places. The emigration was enormous 
 in all directions. 
 
 The dismal ruins of that new city which was to have 
 been built and which never reached completion are visi- 
 ble everywhere. Houses seven stories high, abandoned 
 within a month of completion rise uninhabited and un- 
 inhabitable out of a rank growth of weeds, amidst heaps 
 of nibbish, staring down at the broad, desolate streets 
 where the vigorous grass pushes its way up through the 
 loose stones of the unrolled metalling. Amidst heavy low 
 walls which were to have been the ground stories of 
 palaces, a few ragged children play in the sun, a lean 
 donkey crops the thistles, or if near to a few occupied 
 dwellings, a wine seller makes a booth of straw and 
 chestnut boughs and dispenses a poisonous, sour drink 
 to those who will buy. But that is only in the warm 
 months. The winter winds blow the wretched booth to 
 pieces and increase the desolation. Further on, tall 
 
400 DON OKSINO. 
 
 fafades rise suddenly up, the blue sky gleaming through 
 their windows, the green moss already growing upon 
 their naked stones and bricks. The Barbarini of the 
 future, if any should arise, will not need to despoil the 
 Colosseum to quarry material for their palaces. If, as 
 the old pasquinade had it the Barbarini did what the 
 Barbarians did not, how much worse than barbarians 
 have these modern civilizers done ! 
 
 The distress was very great in the early months of 
 1889. The satisfaction which many of the new men 
 would have felt at the ruin of great old families was 
 effectually neutralized by their own financial destruc- 
 tion. Princes, bankers, contractors and master masons 
 went down together in the general bankruptcy. Ugo 
 Del Ferice survived and with him Andrea Contini and 
 Company, and dou.btless other small firms which he pro- 
 tected for his own ends. San Giacinto, calm, far-seeing, 
 and keen as an eagle, surveyed the chaos from the height 
 of his magnificent fortune, unmoved and immovable, 
 awaiting the lowest ebb of the tide. The Saracinesca 
 looked on, hampered a little by the sudden fall in rents 
 and other sources of their income, but still superior to 
 events, though secretly anxious about Orsino's affairs, 
 and daily expecting that he must fail. 
 
 And Orsino himself had changed, as was natural 
 enough. He was learning to seem what he was not, and . 
 those who have learned that lesson know how it influ- 
 ences the real man whom no one can judge but himself. 
 So long as there had been one person in his life with 
 whom he could live in perfect sympathy he had given 
 himself little trouble about his outward behaviour. So 
 long as he had felt that, come what might, his mother 
 was on his side, he had not thought it worth his while 
 not to be natural with every one, according to Ms 
 humour. He was wrong, no doubt, in fancying that 
 Corona had deserted him. But he had already suffered 
 a loss, in Maria Consuelo, which had at the time seemed 
 the greatest conceivable, and the pain he had suffered 
 
DON OESINO. 401 
 
 then, together with the deep though unacknowledged 
 wound to his vanity, had predisposed him to believe that 
 he -was destined to be friendless. The consequence was 
 that a very slight break in the perfect understanding 
 which had so long existed between him and his mother 
 had produced serious results. He now felt that he was 
 completely alone, and like most lonely men of sound 
 character he acquired the habit of keeping his troubles 
 entirely to himself, while affecting an almost unnaturally 
 quiet and equable manner with those around him. On 
 the whole, he found that his life was easier when he 
 lived it on this principle. He found that he was more 
 careful in his actions since he had a part to sustain, and 
 that his opinion carried more weight since he expressed 
 it more cautiously and seemed less liable to fluctuations 
 of mood and temper. The change in his character was 
 more apparent than real, perhaps, as changes of charac- 
 ter generally are when not in the way of logical develop- 
 ment; but the constant thought of appearances reacts 
 upon the inner nature in the end, and much which at 
 first is only put on, becomes a habit next, and ends by 
 taking the place of an impulse. 
 
 Orsino was aware that his chief preoccupation was 
 identical with that which absorbed his mother's thoughts. 
 He wished to free himself from the business in which 
 he was so deeply involved, and which still prospered so 
 strangely in spite of the general ruin. But here the com- 
 munity of ideas ended. He wished to free himself in his 
 own way, without humiliating himself by going to his 
 father for help. Meanwhile, too, Sant' Ilario himself had 
 his doubts concerning his own judgment. It was incon- 
 ceivable to him that Del Feriee could be losing money to 
 oblige Orsino, and if he had desired to ruin him he could 
 have done so with ease a hundred times in the past 
 months. It might be, he said to himself, that Orsino had 
 after all, a surprising genius for affairs and had weathered 
 the storm in the face of tremendous difficulties. Orsino 
 saw the belief growing in his father's mind, and the cer- 
 
 2d 
 
402 DON OKSINO. 
 
 tainty that it was there did not dispose him to throw up 
 the fight and acknowledge himself beaten. 
 
 The Saracinesea were one of the very few Roman fami- 
 lies in which there is a tradition in favour of non-inter- 
 ference with the action of children already of age. The 
 consequence was that although the old Prince, Giovanni 
 and his wife, all three felt considerable anxiety, they did 
 nothing to hamper Orsino's action, beyond an occasionally 
 repeated warning to be careful. That his occupation was 
 distasteful to them, they did not conceal, but he met their 
 expressions of opinion with perfect equanimity and out- 
 ward good humour, even when his mother, once his 
 staunch ally, openly advised him to give up business and 
 travel for a year. Their prejudice was certainly not un- 
 natural, and had been strengthened by the perusal of the 
 unsavoury details published by the papers at each new 
 bankruptcy during the year. But they found Orsino now 
 always the same, always quiet, good-humoured and firm 
 in his projects. 
 
 Andrea Contini had not been very exact in his calcula- 
 tion of the date at which the last door and the last win- 
 dow would be placed in the last of the houses which he 
 and Orsino had undertaken to build. The disturbance in 
 business might account for the delay. At all events it 
 was late in April of the following year before the work 
 was completed. Then Orsino went to Del Ferice. 
 
 "Of course," he said, maintaining the appearance of 
 calm which had now become habitual with him, "I can- 
 not expect to pay what I owe the bank, unless I can effect 
 a sale of these buildings. You have known that, all along, 
 as well as I. The question is, can they be sold ? " 
 
 " You have no applicant, then ? " Del Ferice looked 
 grave and somewhat surprised. 
 
 " No. We have received no offer.'' 
 
 " You owe the bank a very large sum on these buildings, 
 Don Orsino." 
 
 " Secured by mortgages on them," answered the young 
 man quietly, but preparing for trouble. 
 
DON OKSINO. 403 
 
 "Just SO. Secured by mortgages. But if the bank 
 should foreclose within the next few months, and if the 
 buildings do not realize the amount secured, Contini and 
 Company are liable for the difference." 
 
 " I know that." 
 
 " And the market is very bad, Don Orsino, and shows 
 no signs of improvement." 
 
 " On the other hand the houses are finished, habitable, 
 and can be let immediately." 
 
 " They are certainly finished. You must be aware that 
 the bank has continued to advance the sums necessary for 
 two reasons. Firstly, because an expensive but habitable 
 dwelling is better than a cheap one with no roof. Sec- 
 ondly, because in doing business with Andrea Contini and 
 Company we have been dealing with the only really hon- 
 est and economical firm in Rome." 
 
 Orsino smiled vaguely, but said nothing. He had not 
 much faith in Del Ferice's flattery. 
 
 " But that," continued the latter, " does not dispense 
 us from the necessity of realising what is owing to us — I 
 mean the bank — either in money, or in an equivalent — 
 or in an equivalent," he repeated, thoughtfully rolling a 
 big silver pencil case backward and forward upon the 
 table under his fat white hand. 
 
 " Evidently," assented Orsino. " Unfortunately, at the 
 present time, there seems to be no equivalent for ready 
 money." 
 
 " No — no — perhaps not," said Ugo, apparently becom- 
 ing more and more absorbed in his own thoughts. " And 
 yet," he added, after a little pause, " an arrangement may 
 be possible. The houses certainly possess advantages 
 over much of this wretched property which is thrown 
 upon the market. The position is good and the work 
 is good. Your work is very good, Don Orsino. You 
 know that better than I. Yes— the houses have advan- 
 tages, I admit. The bank has a great deal of waste 
 masonry on its hands, Don Orsino — more than I like to 
 think of." 
 
404 DON ORSINO. 
 
 "Unfortunately, again, the time for improving such 
 property is gone by." 
 
 " It is never too late to mend, says the proverb," re- 
 torted Del Ferice with a smile. " I have a proposition to 
 make. I will state it clearly. If it is not to our mutual 
 advantage, I think neither of us will lose so much by it 
 as we should lose in other ways. It is simply this. We 
 will cry quits. You have a small account current with 
 the bank, and you must sacrifice the credit balance — it is 
 not much, I find — about thirty-five thousand." 
 
 "That was chiefly the profit on the first contract," 
 observed Orsino. 
 
 "Precisely. It will help to cover the bank's loss on 
 this. It will help, because when I say we will cry quits, 
 I mean that you shall receive an equivalent for your 
 houses — a nominal equivalent of course, which the bank 
 nominally takes back as payment of the mortgages." 
 
 " That is not very clear," said Orsino. " I do not under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " No," laughed Del Ferice. " I admit that it is not. It 
 represented rather my own view of the transaction than 
 the practical side. But I will explain myself beyond the 
 possibility of mistake. The bank takes the houses and 
 your cash balance and cancels the mortgages. You are 
 then released from all debt and all obligation upon the 
 old contract. But the bank makes one condition which 
 is important. You must buy from the bank, on mort- 
 gage of course, certain unfinished buildings which it 
 now owns, and you — Andrea Contini and Company — 
 must take a contract to complete them within a given 
 time, the bank advancing you money as before upon 
 notes of hand, secured by subsequent and successive 
 mortgages." 
 
 Orsino was silent. He saw that if he accepted, Del 
 Ferice was receiving the work of a whole year and more 
 withoiit allowing the smallest profit to the workers, 
 besides absorbing the profits of a previous successfully 
 executed contract, and besides taking it for granted that 
 
DON ORSINO. 405 
 
 the existing mortgages only just covered the value of 
 the buildings. If, as was probable, Del Ferice had 
 means of either selling or letting the houses, he stood 
 to make an enormous profit. He saw, too, that if he 
 accepted now, he must in all likelihood be driven to 
 accept similar conditions on a future occasion, and that 
 he would be binding Andrea Contini and himself to work, 
 and to work hard, for nothing and perhaps during years. 
 
 But he saw also that the only alternative was an appeal 
 to his father, or bankruptcy which ultimately meant the 
 same thing. Del Ferice spoke again. 
 
 " Whether you agree, or whether you prefer a foreclos- 
 ure, we shall both lose. But we should lose more by the 
 latter course. In the interests of the bank I trust that 
 you will accept. You see how frankly I speak about it. 
 In the interests of the bank. But then, I need not re- 
 mind you that it would hardly be fair to let us lose heav- 
 ily when you can make the loss relatively a slight one — 
 considering how the bank has behaved to you, and to you 
 alone, throughout this fatal year." 
 
 " I will give you an answer to-morrow," said Orsino. 
 
 He thought of poor Contini who would find that he 
 had worked for nothing during a whole year. But then, 
 it would be easy for Orsino to give Contini a sum of 
 money out of his private resources. Anything was better 
 than giving up the struggle and applying to his father. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Orsino was to all intents and purposes without a 
 friend. How far circumstances had contributed to this 
 result and how far he himself was to blame for his lonely 
 state, those may judge who have followed his history to 
 this point. His grandfather had indeed offered him help 
 and in a way to make it acceptable if he had felt that he 
 
406 DON OESINO. 
 
 could accept it at all. But the old Prince did not in the 
 least understand the business nor the situation. More- 
 over a young fellow of two or three and twenty does not 
 look for a friend in the person of a man sixty years older 
 than himself. While maintaining the most uniformly 
 good relations in his home, Orsino felt himself estranged 
 from his father and mother. His brothers were too 
 young, and were generally away from home at school 
 and college, and he had no sisters. Beyond the walls of 
 the Palazzo Saraeinesca, San Giacinto was the only man 
 whom he would willingly have consulted ; but San Gia- 
 cinto was of all men the one least inclined to intimacy 
 with his neighbours, and, after all, as Orsino reflected, 
 he would probably repeat the advice he had already given, 
 if he vouchsafed counsel of any kind. 
 
 He thought of all his acquaintance and came to the 
 conclusion that he was in reality in terms more closely 
 approaching to friendship with Andrea Contini than with 
 any man of his own class. Yet he would have hesitated 
 to call the architect his friend, as he would have found it 
 impossible to confide in him concerning any detail of his 
 own private life. 
 
 At a time when most young men are making friends, 
 Orsino had been hindered from the formation of such ties 
 by the two great interests which had absorbed his exist- 
 ence, his attachment and subsequent love for Maria 
 Consuelo, and the business at which he had worked so 
 steadily. He had lost Maria Consuelo, in whom he 
 would have confided as he had often done before, and at 
 the present important juncture he stood quite alone. 
 
 He felt that he was no match for Del Ferice. The 
 keen banker was making use of him for his own purposes 
 in a way which neither Orsino nor Contini had ever 
 suspected. It could not be supposed that Ugo had fore- 
 seen from the first the advantage he might reap from the 
 firm he had created and which was so wholly dependent 
 on him. Orsino might have turned out ignorant and 
 incapable. Contini might have proved idle and even 
 
DON OKSINO. 407 
 
 dishonest. But, instead of this, the experiment had 
 succeeded admirably and Ugo found himself possessed 
 of an instrument, as it were, precisely adapted to his 
 end, -which was to make worthless property valuable at 
 the smallest possible expense, in fact, at the lowest cost 
 price. He had secured a first-rate architect and a first- 
 rate accountant, both men of spotless integrity, both 
 young, energetic and unusually industrious. He paid 
 nothing for their services and he entirely controlled 
 their expenditure. It was clear that he would do his 
 utmost to maintain an arrangement so immensely profit- 
 able to himself. If Orsino had realised exactly how 
 profitable it was, he might have forced Del Ferice to 
 share the gain with him, and would have done so for the 
 sake of Contini, if not for his own. He suspected, in- 
 deed, that Ugo was certain beforehand, in each case, of 
 selling or letting the houses, but he had no proof of the 
 fact. Ugo did not leave everything to his confidential 
 clerk, and the secrets he kept to himself were well kept. 
 
 Orsino consulted Contini, as a matter of necessity, 
 before accepting Del Ferice's last offer. The architect 
 went into a tragic-comic rage, bit his cigar through sev- 
 eral times, ground his teeth, drank several glasses of cold 
 water, talked of the blood of Cola di Rienzo, vowed ven- 
 geance on Del Ferice and finally submitted. 
 
 The signing of the new contract determined the course 
 of Orsino's life for another year. It is surprising to see, 
 in the existence of others, how periods of monotonous 
 calm succeed seasons of storm and danger. In our own 
 they do not astonish us so much, if at all. Orsino con- 
 tinued to work hard, to live regularly and to do all those 
 things which, under the cireumst5,nces he ought to have 
 done and earned the reputation of being a model young 
 man, a fact which surprised him on one or two occasions 
 when it came to his ears. Yet when he reflected upon 
 it, he saw that he was in reality not like other young 
 men, and that his conduct was undoubtedly abnormally 
 good as viewed by those around him. His grandfather 
 
408 DON OESINO. 
 
 t)egan to look upon him as something almost unnatural 
 and more than once hinted to Giovanni that the boy, as 
 he still called him, ought to behave like other boys. 
 
 "He is more like San Giacinto than any of us," said 
 Giovanni, thoughtfully. "He has taken after that 
 branch." 
 
 "If that is the case, he might have done worse," 
 answered the old man. "I like San Giacinto. But you 
 always judge superficially, Giovanni — you always did. 
 And the worst of it is, you are always perfectly well 
 satisfied with your own judgments." 
 
 "Possibly. I have certainly not accepted those of 
 others." 
 
 "And the result is that you are turning into an oyster 
 — and Orsino has begun to turn into an oyster, too, and 
 the other boys will follow his example — a perfect oyster- 
 bed! Go and take Orsino by the throat and shake 
 him " 
 
 " I regret to say that I am physically not equal to that 
 feat," said Giovanni with a laugh. 
 
 " I should be ! " exclaimed the aged Prince, doubling 
 his hard hand and bringing it down on the table, while 
 his bright eyes gleamed. " Go and shake him, and tell 
 him to give up this dirty building business — make him 
 give it up, buy him out of it, put plenty of money into 
 his pockets and send him off to amuse himself ! You 
 and Corona have made a prig of him, and business is 
 making an oyster of him, and he will be a hopeless idiot 
 before you realise it ! Stir him, shake him, make him 
 move ! I hate your furniture-man — who is always in the 
 right place and always ready to be sat upon ! " 
 
 " If you can persuade him to give up affairs I have no 
 objection." 
 
 " Persuade him ! I never knew a man worth speaking 
 to who could be persuaded to anything he did not like. 
 Make him — that is the way." 
 
 " But since he is behaving himself and is occupied — 
 that is better than the lives all these young fellows are 
 leading." 
 
DON OESINO. 409 
 
 " Do not argue with me, Giovanni, I hate it. Besides, 
 your reason is worth nothing at all. Did I spend my 
 youth over accounts, in the society of an architect ? Did 
 I put water in my wine and sit up like a model little boy 
 at my papa's table and spend my evenings in carrying 
 my mamma's fan ? Nonsense ! And yet all that was 
 expected in my day, in a way it is not expected now. 
 Look at yourself. You are bad enough — dull enough, 
 I mean. Did you waste the best years of your life in 
 counting bricks and measuring mortar ? " 
 
 "You say that you hate argument, and yet you are 
 arguing. But Orsino shall please himself, as I did, and 
 in his own way. I will certainly not interfere." 
 
 "Because you know you can do nothing with him!" 
 retorted old Saracinesca contemptuously. 
 
 Giovanni laughed. Twenty years earlier he would 
 have lost his temper to no purpose. But twenty years 
 of unrufH.ed existence had changed him. 
 
 " You are not the man you were," grumbled his father. 
 
 " No. I have been too happy, far too long, to be much 
 like what I was at thirty." 
 
 " And do you mean to say I am not happy, and have 
 not been happy, and do not ijiean to be happy, and do 
 not wish everybody to be happy, so long as this old 
 machine hangs together ? What nonsense you talk, my 
 boy. Go and make love to your wife. That is all you 
 are fit for ! " 
 
 Discussions of this kind were not unfrequent but of 
 course led to nothing. As a matter of fact Sant' Ilario 
 was quite right in believing interference useless. It 
 would have been impossible. He was no more able to 
 change Orsino's determination than he was physically 
 capable of shaking him. Not that Sant' Ilario was weak, 
 physically or morally, nor ever had been. But his son 
 had grown up to be stronger than he. 
 
 Twelve months passed away. During that time the 
 young man worked, as he had worked before, regularly 
 and untiringly. But his object now was to free himself, 
 
410 DON OESINO. 
 
 and lie no longer hoped to make a fortune or to do any- 
 thing beyond the strict execution of the contract he had 
 in hand, determined if possible to avoid taking another. 
 With a coolness and self-denial beyond his years, he 
 systematically hoarded the allowance he received from 
 his father, in order to put together a sum of money for 
 poor Contini. He made economies everywhere, refused 
 to go into society and spent his evenings in reading. 
 His acquired manner stood him in good stead, but he 
 could not bear more than a limited amount of the daily 
 talk in the family. Being witty, rather than gay, if he 
 could be said to be either, he found himself inclined 
 rather to be bitter than amusing when he was wearied 
 by the monotonous conversation of others. He knew 
 this to be a mistake and controlled himself, taking 
 refuge in solitude and books when he . could control 
 himself no longer. 
 
 "Whether he loved Maria Consuelo still, or not, it was 
 clear that he was not inclined to love any one else for 
 the present. The tolerably harmless dissipation and 
 wildness of the two or three years he had spent in 
 England could not account for such a period of coldness 
 as followed his separation from Maria Consuelo. He 
 had by no means exhausted the pleasures of life and his 
 capacity for enjoyment could not even be said to have 
 reached its height. But he avoided the society of women 
 even more consistently than he shunned the club and 
 the card table. 
 
 More than a year had gone by since he had heard 
 from Maria Consuelo. He met Spicca from time to time, 
 looking now as though he had not a day to live, but 
 neither of them mentioned past events. The Eomats 
 had talked a little of her sjidden change of plans, for it 
 had been known that she had begun to furnish a large 
 apartment for the winter of the previous year, and had 
 then very unaccountably changed her mind and left the 
 place in the hands of an agent to be sub-let. People 
 said she had lost her fortune. Then she had been for- 
 
DOK OESINO. 411 
 
 gotten in the general disaster that followed, and no one 
 had taken the trouble to remember her since then. 
 Even Gouache, who had once been so enthusiastic over 
 her portrait, did not seem to know or care what had 
 become of her. Once only, and quite accidentally, Or- 
 sino had authentic information of her whereabouts. He 
 took up an English society journal one evening. and 
 glanced idly over .the paragraphs. Maria Consuelo's 
 name arrested his attention. A certain very high and 
 mighty old lady of royal lineage was about to travel in 
 Egypt during the winter. " Her Royal Highness," said 
 the paper, " will be accompanied by the Countess d'Aran- 
 juez d'Aragona." Orsino's hand shook a little as he laid 
 the sheet aside, and he was pale when he rose a few 
 moments later and went oif to his own room. He could 
 not help wondering why Maria Consuelo was styled by 
 a title to which she certainly had a legal right, but which 
 she had never before used, and he wondered still more 
 why she travelled in Egypt with an old princess who was 
 generally said to be anything but an agreeable com- 
 panion, and was reported to be quite deaf. But on the 
 whole he thought little of the information itself. It 
 was the sight of Maria Consuelo's name which had 
 moved him, and he was not altogether himself for several 
 days. The impression wore ofE before long, and he fol- 
 lowed the round of his monotonous life as before. 
 
 Early in the month of March in the year 1890, he was 
 seated alone in his room one evening before dinner. The 
 great contract he had undertaken was almost finished, 
 and he knew that within two months he would be placed 
 in the same difficult position from which he had formerly 
 so signally failed to extricate himself. That he and Con- 
 tini had executed the terms of the contract with scrupu- 
 lous and conscientious nicety did not better the position. 
 That they had made the most strenuous efforts to find 
 purchasers for the property, as they had a right to do if 
 they could, and had failed, made the position hopeless or 
 almost as bad as that. Whether they liked it or not. 
 
412 DON OESINO. 
 
 Del Ferice had so arranged that the great mass of their 
 acceptances should, fall due about the time when the 
 work would be finished. To mortgage on the same 
 terms or anything approaching the same terms with any 
 other bank was out of the question, so that they had no 
 hope of holding the property for the purpose of leasing 
 it. Even if Orsino could have contemplated for a moment 
 such an act of bad faith as wilfully retarding the work 
 in order to gain a renewal of the bills, such a course 
 could have led to no actual improvement in the situation. 
 The property was unsaleable and Del Ferice knew it, and 
 had no intention of selling it. He meant to keep it for 
 himself and let it, as a permanent source of income. It 
 would not have cost him in the end one half of its actual 
 value, and was exceptionally good property. Orsino saw 
 how hopeless it was to attempt resistance, unless he 
 would resign himself to voting an appeal to his own peo- 
 ple, and this, as of old, he was resolved not to do. 
 
 He was reflecting upon his life of bondage when a 
 servant brought him a letter. He tossed it aside without 
 looking at it, but it chanced to slip from the polished 
 table and fall to the ground. As he picked it up his 
 attention was arrested by the handwriting and by the 
 stamp. The stamp was Egyptian and the writing was 
 that of Maria Consuelo. He started, tore open the 
 envelope and took out a letter of many pages, written on 
 thin paper. At first he found it hard to follow the char- 
 acters, and his heart beat at a rate which annoyed him. 
 He rose, walked the length of the room and back again, 
 sat down in another seat close to the lamp and read the 
 letter steadily from beginning to end. 
 
 " My dear Friend — You may, perhaps, be surprised at hear- 
 ing from me after so long a time. I received your last letter. 
 How long ago was that Y Twelve, fourteen, fifteen months ? I 
 do not know. It is as well to forget, since I at least would rather 
 not remember what you wrote. And I write now — why? 
 Simply because I have the impulse to do so. That is the best 
 of all reasons. I wish to hear from you, which is selfish ; and 
 
DON ORSINO. 413 
 
 I wish to hear about you, -which is not. Are you still working 
 at that business in which you were so much interested? Or 
 have you given it up and gone back to the life you used to hate 
 so thoroughly ? I would like to know. Do you remember how 
 angry I was long ago, because you agreed to meet Del Ferice 
 in my drawing-room ? I was very wrong, for the meeting led 
 to many good results. I like to think that you are not quite 
 like all the young men of your set, who do nothing — and cannot 
 even do that gracefully. I think you used those very words 
 about yourself, once upon a time. But you proved that you 
 could live a very different life if you chose. I hope you are 
 living it still. 
 
 " And so poor Donna TuUia is dead — has been dead a year 
 and a half I I wrote Del Ferice a long letter when I got the 
 news. He answered me. He is not as bad as you used to 
 think, for he was terribly pained by his loss — I could see that 
 well enough in what he wrote though there was nothing exag- 
 gerated or desperate in the phrases. In fact there were no 
 phrases at all. I wish I had kept the letter to send to you, but 
 I never keep letters. Poor Donna TuUia!- I cannot imagine 
 Rome without her. It would certainly not be the same place 
 to me, for she was uniformly kind and thoughtful where I was 
 concerned, whatever she may have been to others. 
 
 " Echoes reach me from time to time in different parts of the 
 world, as I travel, and Rome seems to be changed in many 
 ways. They say the ruin was dreadful when the crash came. 
 I suppose you gave up business then, as was natural, since they 
 say there is no more business to do. But I would be glad to 
 know that nothing disagreeable happened to you in the financial 
 storm. I confess to having felt an unaccountable anxiety about 
 you of late. Perhaps that is why I write and why I hope for an 
 answer at once. I have always looked upon presentiments and 
 f orewarnings and all such intimations as utterly false and absurd, 
 and I do not really believe that anything has happened or is 
 happening to distress you. But it is our woman's privilege to 
 be inconsistent, and we should be still more inconsistent if we 
 did not use it. Besides I have felt the same vague disquietude 
 about you more than once before and have not written. Perhaps 
 I should not write even now unless I had a great deal more 
 time at my disposal than I know what to do with. Who knows ? 
 If you are busy, write a word on a post-card, just to say that 
 nothing is the matter. Here in Egypt we do not realise what 
 time means, and certainly not that it can ever mean money. 
 
414 DON ORSINO. 
 
 " It is an idle life, less idle for me perhaps than for some of 
 those about me, but even for me not over -full of occupations. 
 The climate occupies all the time not actually spent in eating, 
 sleeping and visiting ruins. It is fair, I suppose, to tell you 
 something of myself since I ask for news of you. I -will tell 
 you what I can. 
 
 "I am travelling with an old lady, as her companion — not 
 exactly out of inclination and yet not exactly out of duty. Is 
 that too mysterious ? Do you see me as Companion and general 
 amuserto an old lady — over seventy years of age ? No. I pre- 
 sume not. And I am not with her by necessity either, for I 
 have not suffered any losses. On the contrary, since I dismissed 
 a certain person — an attendant, we will call her — from my ser- 
 vice, it seems to me that my income is doubled. The attendant, 
 by the bye, has opened a hotel on the Lake of Como. Perhaps 
 you, who are so good a man of business, may see some connex- 
 ion between these simple facts. I was never good at managing 
 money, nor at understanding what it meant. It seems that I 
 have not inherited all the family talents. 
 
 " But I return to Egypt, to the Nile, to this dahabiyah, on 
 board of which it has pleased the fates to dispose my existence 
 for the present. I am not called a companion, but a lady in 
 waiting, which would be only another term, for the same thing, 
 if I were not really very much attached to the Princess, old 
 and deaf as she is. And that is saying a great deal. No one 
 knows what deafness means who has not I'ead aloud to a deaf 
 person, which is what I do every day. I do not think I ever 
 told you about her. I have known her all my life, ever since I 
 was a little girl in the convent in Vienna. She used to come 
 and see me and bring me good things — and books of prayers — 
 I remember especially a box of candied fruits which she told me 
 came from Kiew. I have never eaten any like them since. I 
 wonder how many sincere affections between young and old 
 people owe their existence originally to a confectioner I 
 
 "When I left Rome, I met her again in Nice. She was 
 there with the Prince, who was in wretched health and who 
 died soon afterwards. He never was so fond of me as she was. 
 After his death, she asked me to stay with her as long as I 
 would. I do not think I shall leave her again so long as she 
 lives. She treats me like her own child — or rather, her grand- 
 child — and besides, the life suits me very well. I am, really, 
 perfectly independent, and yet I am perfectly protected. I 
 shall not repeat the experiment of living alone for three years, 
 until I am much older, 
 
DON oEsmo. 415 
 
 " It is a rather strange friendship. My Princess knows all 
 about me— all that you know. I told her one day and she did 
 not seem at all surprised. I thought I owed her the truth 
 about myself, since I was to live with her, and since she had 
 always been so kind to me. She says I remind her of her 
 daughter, the poor young Princess Marie, who died nearly thii-ty 
 years ago. In Nice, too, like her father, poor girl. She was 
 only just nineteen, and very beautiful they say. I suppose the 
 dear good old lady fancies she sees some resemblance even now, 
 though I am so much older than her daughter was when she • 
 died. There is the origin of our friendship — the trivial and 
 the tragic — confectionery and death — a box of candied fruits 
 and an irreparable loss ! If there were no contrasts what would 
 the world be ? All one or the other, I suppose. All death, or 
 all Kiew sweetmeats. 
 
 " I suppose you know what life in Egypt is like. If you 
 have not tried it yourseK, your friends have and can describe it 
 to you. I will certainly not inflict my impressions upon your 
 friendship. It would be rather a severe test — perhaps yours 
 would not bear it) and then I should be sorry. 
 
 "Do you know? I like to think that I have a friend in 
 you. I like to remember the time when you used to talk to 
 me of all your plans — the dear old time ! I would rather 
 remember that than much which came afterwards. You have 
 forgiven me for all I did, and are glad, now, that I did it. Yes, 
 I can fancy your smile. You do not see yom-self. Prince Sara- 
 cinesca, Prince Sant' Ilario, Duke of Whatever-it-may-be, Lord 
 of ever so many What^are-their-names, Prince of the Holy 
 Roman Empire, Grandee of Spain of the First Class, Khight of 
 Malta and Hereditary Something to the Holy See — in short the 
 tremendous personage you will one day be — you do not exactly 
 see yom'self as the son-in-law of the Signora Lucrezia Ferris, 
 proprietor of a tourist's hotel on the Lake of Como ! Confess 
 that the idea was an -absurdity ! As for me, I will confess that 
 I did very wrong. Had I known all the truth on that after- 
 noon — do you remember the thunderstorm? I would have 
 saved you much, and I should have saved myself — well — some- 
 thing. But we have better things to do than to run after 
 shadows. Perhaps it is as well not even to think of them. It 
 is all over now. Whatever you may think of it all, forgive your 
 old friend, Maria Consuelo d'A." 
 
 Orsino read the long letter to the end, and sat a while 
 
416 DON OESINO. 
 
 thinking over the contents. Two points in it struck him 
 especially. In the first place it was not the letter of a 
 woman who wished to call back a man she had dismissed. 
 There was no sentiment in it, or next to none. She pro- 
 fessed herself contented in her life, if not happy, and 
 in one sentence she brought before him the enormous 
 absurdity of the marriage he had once contemplated. He 
 had more than once been ashamed of not making some 
 further direct effort to win her again. He was now sud- 
 . denly conscious of the great influence which her first let- 
 ter, containing the statement of her parentage, had really 
 exercised over him. Strangely enough, what she now 
 wrote reconciled him, as it were, with himself. It had 
 turned out best, after all. 
 
 That he loved her still, he felt sure, as he held in his 
 hand the pages she had written and felt the old thrill he 
 knew so well in his fingers, and the old, quick beating of 
 the heart. But-he acknowledged gladly — too gladly, per- 
 haps — that he had done well to let her go. 
 
 Then came the second impression. " I like to remem- 
 ber the time when you used to talk to me of all your 
 plans." The words rang in his ears and called up deli- 
 cious visions of the past, soft hours spent by her side while 
 she listened with something warmer than patience to the 
 outpouring of his young hopes and aspirations. She, at 
 least, had understood him, and encouraged him, and 
 strengthened him with her sympathy. And why not 
 now, if then ? Why should she not understand him 
 now, when he most needed a friend, and give him sym- 
 pathy now, when he stood most in need of it ? She was 
 in Egypt and he in Eome, it was true. But what of that ? 
 If she could write to him, he could write to her, and she 
 could answer him again. No one had ever felt with him 
 as she had. 
 
 He did not hesitate long. On that same evening, after 
 dinner, he went back to his own room and wrote to her. 
 It was a little hard at first,_but, as the ink flowed, he ex- 
 pressed himself better and more clearly. With an odd 
 
DON ORSINO. 417 
 
 sort of caution, which had grown upon him of late, he 
 tried to make his letter take a form as similar to hers as 
 possible. 
 
 " My dbak Fkiend " (he wrote) — " If people always yielded 
 to their impulses as you have done in writing to me, there would 
 be more good fellowship and less loneliness in the world. It 
 would not be easy for me to tell you how great a pleasure you 
 have given me. Perhaps, hereafter, I may compare it to your 
 own memory of the Kiew candied fruits ! For the present I do 
 not find a worthy comparison to my hand. 
 
 "You ask many questions. I propose to answer them all. 
 WUl you have the patience to read what I write ? I hope so, 
 for the sake of the time when I used to talk to you of all my 
 plans — and Which you say you like to remember. For another 
 reason, too. I have never felt so lonely in my life as I feel now, 
 nor so much in need of a friend — not a helping friend, but one 
 to whom I can speak a little freely. I am very much alone. A 
 sort of estrangement has grown up between my mother and me, 
 and she no longer takes my side in all I want to do, as she did 
 once. 
 
 " I will be quite plain. I will tell you all my troubles, 
 because there is not another person in the world to whom I 
 could tell them — and because I know that they will not trouble 
 you. You will feel a little friendly sympathy, and that will be 
 enough. But you will feel no pain. After all, I daresay that I 
 exaggerate, and that there is nothing so very painful in the mat- 
 ter, as it will strike you. But the case is serious, as you will 
 see. It involves my life, perhaps for many years to come. 
 
 " I am completely in Del Ferice's powei-. A year ago I had 
 the possibility of freeing myself. What do you think that 
 chance was ? I could have gone to my grandfather and asked 
 him to lay down a sum of money suflBcient to liberate me, or I 
 could have refused Del Ferice's new offer and allowed myseH to 
 be declared bankrupt. My abominable vanity stood in the way 
 of my following either of those plans. In less than two months 
 I shall be placed in the same position again. But the circum- 
 stances are changed. The sum of money is so considerable that 
 I would not like to ask all my family, with their three fortunes, 
 to contribute it. The business is enormous. I have an estab- 
 lishment like a bank and Contini— you remember Contini? — 
 has several assistant architects. Moreover we stand alone. 
 
 2e 
 
418 DON OESINO. 
 
 There is no other firm of the kind left, and our failure would be 
 a very disagreeable affair. But so long as I remain Del Fence's 
 slave, we shall not fail. Do you know that this great and suc- 
 cessful firm is carried on systematically without a centime of 
 profit to the partners, and with the constant threat of a disgrace- 
 ful failure, used to force me on ? Do you think that if I chose 
 the alternative, any one would believe, or that my tyrant would 
 let any one believe, that Orsino Saracinesca had served Ugo Del 
 Ferice for years — two years and a half before long — as a sort of 
 bondsman? I am in a very unenviable position. I am sure 
 that Del Ferice made use of me at first for his own ends — that 
 is, to make money for him. The magnitude of the sums which 
 pass through my hands makes me sm-e that he is now backed 
 by a powerful syndicate, probably of foreign bankers who lost 
 money in the Eoman crash, and who see a chance of getting it 
 back through Del Ferice's management. It is a question of 
 millions. You do not understand? Will you try to read my 
 explanation ? " 
 
 And here Orsino summed up his position towards Del' 
 Ferice in a clear and succinct statement, which it is not 
 necessary to reproduce here. It needed no talent for busi- 
 ness on Maria Consuelo's part to understand that he was 
 bound hand and foot. 
 
 "One of three things must happen" (Orsino continued). 
 " I must cripple, if not ruin, the fortune of my family, or I must 
 go through a scandalous bankruptcy, or I must continue to be 
 Ugo Del Ferice's servant during the best years of my life. My 
 only consolation is that I am unpaid. I do not speak of poor 
 Contini. He is making a reputation, it is true, and Del Ferice 
 gives him something which I increase as much as I can. Con- 
 sidering our positions, he is the more completely sacrificed of 
 the two, poor fellow — and through my fault. If I had only 
 had the courage to put my vanity out of the way eighteen 
 months ago, I might have saved him as well as myself. I 
 believed myself a match for Del Ferice — and I neither was nor 
 ever shall be. I am a little desperate. 
 
 " That is my life, my dear friend. Since you have not quite 
 forgotten me, write me a word of that good old sympathy on 
 which I lived so long. It may soon be all I have to live on. 
 If Del Ferice should have the bad taste to follow Donna TuUia 
 
T>0^ OESINO. 419 
 
 to Saint Lawrence's, nothing could save me. I should no 
 longer have the alternative of remaining his slave in exchange 
 for safety from bankruptcy to myself and ruin — or something 
 like it — to my father. 
 
 " But let us talk no more about it all. But for your kindly 
 letter, no one would ever have known all this, except Contini. 
 In your calm Egjrptian life — thank God, dear, that your life is 
 calm !^my story must sound like a fragment from an unpleas- 
 ant dream. One thing you do not tell me. Are you happy, as 
 well as peaceful ? I would like to know. I am not. 
 
 " Pray write again, when you have time — and inclination. 
 If there is anything to be done for you in Rome — any little 
 thing, or great thing either — command your old friend, 
 
 " Oksino Saracinesca." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Orsino posted his letter with an odd sensation of relief. 
 He felt that he was once more in communication with 
 humanity, since he had been able to speak out and tell 
 some one of the troubles that oppressed him. He had 
 assuredly no reason for being more hopeful than before, 
 and matters were in reality growing more serious every 
 day ; but his heart was lighter and he took a more cheer- 
 ful view of the future, almost against his own better 
 judgment. 
 
 He had not expected to receive an answer from Maria 
 Consuelo for some time and was surprised when one came 
 in less than ten days from the date of his writing. This 
 letter was short, hurriedly written and carelessly worded, 
 but there was a ring of anxiety for him in every line of it 
 which he could not misinterpret. Not only did she ex- 
 press the deepest sympathy for him and assure him that 
 all he did still had the liveliest interest for her, but she 
 also insisted upon being informed of the state of his affairs 
 as often as possible. He had spoken of three possibilities, 
 she said. Was there not a fourth somewhere ? There 
 
420 DON OKSINO. 
 
 might often be an issue from the most desperate situation, 
 of which no one dreamed. Could she not help him to 
 discover where it lay in this case ? Could they not write 
 to each other and find it out together ? 
 
 Orsino looked uneasily at the lines, and the blood rose 
 to his temples. Did she mean what she said, or more, 
 or less ? He was overwrought and over-sensitive, and 
 she had written thoughtlessly, as though not weighing 
 her words, but only following an impulse for which she 
 had no time to find the proper expression. She could 
 not imagine that he would accept substantial help from 
 her — still less that he would consent to marry her for 
 the sake of the fortune which might save him. He grew 
 very angry, then turned cold again, and then, reading 
 the words again, saw that he had no right to attach any 
 such meaning to them. Then it struck him that even if, 
 by any possibility, she had meant to convey such an idea, 
 he would have no right at all to resent it. Women, he 
 refiected, did not look upon such matters as men did. 
 She had refused to marry him when he was prosperous. 
 If she meant that she would marry him now, to save him 
 from ruin, he could not but acknowledge that she was 
 carrying devotion near to its farthest limit. But the 
 words themselves would not bear such an interpretation. 
 He was straining language too far in suggesting it. 
 
 " And yet she means something," he said to himself. 
 " Something which I cannot understand.'' 
 
 He wrote again, maintaining the tone of his first letter 
 more carefully than she had done on her part, though 
 not sparing the warmest expressions of heartfelt thanks 
 for the sympathy she had so readily given. But there 
 was no fourth way, he said. One of those three things 
 which he had explained to her must happen. There was 
 no hope, and he was resigned to continue his existence 
 of slavery until Del Fence's death brought about the 
 great crisis of his life. Not that Del Ferice was in any 
 danger of dying, he added, in spite of the general gossip 
 about his bad health. Such men often outlasted stronger 
 
DON OESIKO. 421 
 
 people, as Ugo had outlived Donna Tullia. ISTot that his 
 death would improve matters, either, as they stood at 
 present. That he had explained before. If the count 
 died now, there were ninety-nine chances out of a hun- 
 dred that Orsino would be ruined. For the present, 
 nothing would happen. In little more than a month — 
 in six weeks at the utmost — a new arrangement would 
 be forced upon him, binding him perhaps for years to 
 come. Del Ferice had already spoken to him of a great 
 public undertaking, at least half of the contract for which 
 could easily be secured or controlled by his bank. He 
 had added that this might be a favourable occasion for 
 Andrea Contini and Company to act in concert with the 
 bank. Orsino knew what that meant. Indeed, there 
 was no possibility of mistaking the meaning, which was 
 clear enough. The fourth plan could only lie in finding 
 beforehand a purchaser for buildings which could not be 
 so disposed of, because they were built for a particular 
 purpose, and could only be bought by those who had or- 
 dered them, namely persons whom Del Ferice so con- 
 trolled that he could postpone their appearance if he 
 chose and drive Orsino into a failure at any moment 
 after the completion of the work. For instance, one of 
 those buildings was evidently intended for a factory, and 
 probably for a match factory. Del Ferice, in requiring 
 that Contini and Company should erect what he had 
 already arranged to dispose of, had vaguely remarked 
 that there were no match factories in Rome and that 
 perhaps some one would like to buy one. If Orsino had 
 been less desperate he would willingly have risked much 
 to resent the suave insolence. As it was, he had laughed 
 in his tyrant's face, and bitterly enough ; a form of 
 insult, however, to which Ugo was supremely indifferent. 
 These and many other details Orsino wrote to Maria 
 Consuelo, pouring out his confidence with the assurance 
 of a man who asks nothing but sympathy and is sure of 
 receiving that in overflowing measure. He no longer 
 waited for her answers, as the crucial moment ap- 
 
422 DON OBSINO. 
 
 proached, but wrote freely from day to day, as he felt in- 
 clined. There was little which he did not tell her in the 
 dozen or fifteen letters he penned in the course of the 
 month. Like many reticent men who have never taken 
 up a pen except for ordinary correspondence or for the 
 routine work of a business requiring accuracy, and who 
 all at once begin to write the history of their daily lives 
 for the perusal of one trusted person, Orsino felt as 
 though he had found a new means of expression and 
 abandoned himself willingly to the comparative pleasure 
 of complete confidence. Like all such men, too, he 
 unconsciously exhibited the chief fault of his character 
 in his long, diary -like letters. That fault was his vanity. 
 Had he been describing a great success he could and 
 would have concealed it better ; in writing of his own 
 successive errors and disappointments he showed by the 
 excessive blame he cast upon himself, how deeply that 
 vanity of his was wounded. It is possible that Maria 
 Consuelo discovered this. But she made no profession 
 of analysis, and while appearing outwardly far colder 
 than Orsino, she seemed much more disposed than he to 
 yield to unexpected impulses when she felt their influ- 
 ence. And Orsino was quite unconscious that he might 
 be exhibiting the defects of his moral nature to eyes 
 keener than his own. 
 
 He wrote constantly therefore, with the utmost free- 
 dom, and in the moments while he was writing he enjoyed 
 a faint illusion of increased safety, as though he were re- 
 tarding the events of the future by describing minutely 
 those of the past. More than once again Maria Consuelo 
 answered him, and always in the same strain, doing her 
 best, apparently, to give him hope and to reconcile him 
 with himself. However much he might condemn his 
 own lack of foresight, she said, no man who did his best 
 according to his best judgment, and who acted honour- 
 ably, was40kbe blamed for the result, though it might 
 involve the ruin of thousands. That was her chief argu- 
 ment and it comforted him, and seemed to relieve him 
 
DON OESINO. 423 
 
 from a small part of the responsibility which weighed so 
 heavily upon his shoulders, a burden now grown so heavy 
 that the least lightening of it made him feel compara- 
 tively free until called upon to face facts again and fight 
 with realities. 
 
 But events would not be retarded, and Orsino's own 
 good qualities tended to hasten them, as they had to a 
 great extent been the cause of his embarrassment ever 
 since the success of his first attempt, in making him 
 valuable as a slave to be kept from escaping at all risks. 
 The system upon which the business was conducted was 
 admirable. It had been good from the beginning and 
 Orsino had improved it to a degree very uncommon in 
 Rome. He had mastered the science of book-keeping in 
 a short time, and had forced himself to an accuracy 
 of detail and a promptness of ready reference which 
 would have surprised many an old professional clerk. It 
 must be remembered that from the first he had found 
 little else to do. The technical work had always been in 
 Contini's hands, and Del Ferice's forethought had relieved 
 them both from the necessity of entering upon financial 
 negotiations requiring time, diplomatic tact and skill of a 
 higher order. The consequence was that Orsino had de- 
 voted the whole of his great energy and native talent for 
 order to the keeping of the books, with the result that 
 when a contract had been executed there was hardly any 
 accountant's work to be done. Nominally, too, Andrea 
 Contini and Company were not responsible to any one for 
 their book-keeping ; but in practice, and under pretence of 
 rendering valuable service, Del Ferice sent an auditor from 
 time to time to look into the state of affairs, a proceeding 
 which Contini bitterly resented while Orsino expressed 
 himself perfectly indifferent to the interference, on the 
 ground that there was nothing to conceal. Had the books 
 been badly kept, the final winding up of each contract 
 would have been retarded for one or more weeks. But 
 the more deeply Orsino became involved, the more keenly 
 he felt the value and, at last, the vital importance, of the 
 
424 DON ORsrNO. 
 
 most minute accuracy. If worse came to worst and he 
 should be obliged to fail, through Del Ferice's sudden 
 death or from any other cause, his reputation as an 
 honourable man might depend upon this very accuracy of 
 detail, by which he would be able to prove that in the 
 midst of great undertakings, and while very large sums of 
 money were passing daily through his hands, he had never 
 received even the very smallest share of the profits 
 absorbed by the bank. He even kept a private account 
 of his own expenditure on the allowance he received from 
 his father, in order that, if called upon, he might be able 
 to prove how large a part of that allowance he regularly 
 paid to poor Contini as compensation for the unhappy 
 position in which the latter found himself. If bankruptcy 
 awaited him, his failure would, if the facts were properly 
 made known, reckon as one of the most honourable on 
 record, though he was pleased to look upon such a con- 
 tingency as a certain source of scandal and more than 
 possible disgrace. 
 
 Unconsciously his own determined industry in book- 
 keeping gave him a little more confidence. In his great 
 anxiety he was spared the terrible uncertainty felt by a 
 man who does not precisely know his own financial posi- 
 tion at a given critical moment. His studiously acquired 
 outward calm also stood him in good stead. Even San 
 Giacinto who knew the financial world as few men knew it 
 watched his youthful cousin with curiosity and not with- 
 out a certain sympathy and a very little admiration. The 
 young man's face was growing stern and thoughtful like 
 his own, lean, grave and strong. San Giacinto remem- 
 bered that night a year and a half earlier when he had 
 warned Orsino of the coming danger, and he was almost 
 displeased with himself now for having taken a step 
 which seemed to have been unnecessary. It was San 
 Giacinto's principle never to do anything unnecessary, 
 because a useless action meant a loss of time aiid there- 
 fore a loss of advantage over the adversary of the mo- 
 ment. San Giacinto, in different circumstances, would 
 
DON ORSINO. 425 
 
 have made a good general — possibly a great one ; his 
 strange life had made him a financier of a type singular 
 and wholly different from that of the men with whom he 
 had to deal. He never sought to gain an advantage by a 
 deception, but he won everything by superior foresight, 
 imperturbable coolness, matchless rapidity of action and 
 undaunted courage under all circumstances. It needs 
 higher qualities to be a good man, but no others are 
 needed to make a successful one. Orsino possessed 
 something of the same rapidity and much of a similar 
 coolness and courage, but he lacked the foresight. It was 
 vanity, of the most pardonable kind, indeed, but vanity 
 nevertheless which had led him to embark upon his dan- 
 gerous enterprise — not in the determination to accom- 
 plish for the sake of accomplishing, still less in the 
 direct desire for wealth as an ultimate object, but in the 
 almost boyish longing to show to his own people that 
 there was more in him than they suspected. The gift of 
 foresight is generally weakened by the presence of van- 
 ity, but when vanity takes its place the result is as 
 likely to be failure as not, and depends almost directly 
 upon chance alone. 
 
 The crisis in Orsino's life was at hand, and what has 
 here been finally said of his position at that time seemed 
 necessary, as summing up the consequences to him of 
 more than two years' unremitting labour, during which 
 he had become involved in affairs of enormous conse- 
 quence at an age when most young men are spending their 
 time, more profitably perhaps and certainly more agree- 
 ably, in such pleasures and pursuits as mother society 
 provides for her half-fledged nestlings. 
 
 On the day before his final interview with Del Terice 
 Orsino wrote a lengthy letter to Maria Consuelo. As 
 she did not receive it until long afterwards it is quite 
 unnecessary to give any account of its contents. Some 
 time had passed since he had heard from her and he was 
 not sure whether or not she were still in Egypt. But 
 he wrote to her, nevertheless, drawing much fictitious 
 
426 DON ORSINO. 
 
 comfort and little real advantage from the last clear 
 statement of his difficulties. By this time, writing to 
 her had become a habit and he resorted to it naturally 
 when over wearied by work and anxiety. 
 
 On this same day also he had spent several hours in 
 talking over the situation with Contini. The architect, 
 strange to say, was more reconciled . with his position 
 than he had formerly been. He, at least, received a cer- 
 tain substantial remuneration. He, at least, loved his 
 profession and rejoiced in the handling of great masses 
 of brick and stone. He, too, was rapidly making a repu- 
 tation and a name for himself, and, if business improved, 
 was not prevented from entering into other enterprises 
 besides the one in which he found himself so deeply in- 
 terested. As a member of the firm, he could not free 
 himself. As an architect, he could have an architect's 
 office of his own and build for any one who chose to 
 employ him. Por his own part, he said, he might per- 
 haps be more profitably employed upon less important 
 work ; but then, he might not, for biisiness was very bad. 
 The great works in which Del Ferice kept him engaged 
 had the incalculable advantage of bringing him con- 
 stantly before the public as an architect and of keeping 
 his name, which was the name of the firm, continually in 
 the notice of all men of business. He was deeply in- 
 debted to Orsino for the generous help given when the 
 realities of profit were so greatly at variance with the 
 appearances of jjrosperity. He would always regard re- 
 payment of the money so advanced to him as a debt of 
 honour and he hoped to live long enough to extinguish 
 it. He sympathised with Orsino in his desire to be freer 
 and more independent, but reminded him that when the 
 day of liberation came, he would not regret the compara- 
 tively short apprenticeship during which he had acquired 
 so great a mastery of business. Business, he said, had 
 been Orsino's ambition from the beginning, and business 
 he had, in plenty, if not with profit. For his own part, 
 he was satisfied. 
 
DON ORSINO. 427 
 
 Orsiao felt that his partner could not be blamed, and 
 he felt, too, that he would be doing Contini a great injury 
 in involving him in a failure. But he regretted the time 
 when their interests had coincided and they had cursed 
 Del Ferice in common and with a good will. There was 
 nothing to be done but to submit. He knew well enough 
 what awaited him. 
 
 On the following morning, by appointment, he went 
 with a heavy heart to meet Del Ferice at the bank. The 
 latter had always preferred to see Orsino without Con- 
 tini when a new contract was to be discussed. As a per- 
 sonal acquaintance he treated with Orsino on a footing 
 of social equality, and the balance of outwardly agree- 
 able relations would have been disturbed by the presence 
 of a social inferior. Moreover, Del Ferice knew the Sar- 
 acinesca people tolerably well, and though not so timid 
 as many people supposed, he somewhat dreaded a sudden 
 outbreak of the hereditary temper ; if such a manifesta- 
 tion really took place, it would be more agreeable that 
 there should be no witnesses of it. 
 
 Orsino was surprised to find that TJgo was out of town. 
 Having made an appointment, he ought at least to have 
 sent word to the Palazzo Saracinesca of his departure. 
 He had indeed left a message for Orsino, which was cor- 
 rectly delivered, to the effect that he would return in 
 twenty-four hours, and requesting him to postpone the 
 interview until the following afternoon. In Orsino's 
 humour this was not altogether pleasant. The young 
 man felt little suspense indeed, for he knew how matters 
 must turn out, and that he should be saddled with an- 
 other contract. But he found it hard to wait with 
 equanimity, now that he had made up his mind to the 
 worst, and he resented Del' Ferice's rudeness in not giv- 
 ing a civil warning of his intended journey. 
 
 The day passed somehow, at last, and towards evening 
 Orsino received a telegram from Ugo, full of excuses, 
 but begging to put off the meeting two days longer. The 
 dispatch was from Kaples whither Del Ferice often 
 went on business. 
 
428 DON OESINO. 
 
 It was almost unbearable and yet it must be borne. 
 Orsino spent his time in roaming about the less fre- 
 quented parts of the city, trying to make new plans for 
 the future which was already planned for him, doing his 
 best to follow out a distinct line of thought, if only to 
 distract his own attention. He could not even write to 
 Maria Consuelo, for he felt that he had said all there 
 was to be said, in his last long letter. 
 
 On the morning of the fourth day he went to the bank 
 again. Del Perice was there and greeted him warmly, 
 interweaving his phrases with excuses for his absence. 
 
 " You will forgive me, I am sure," he said, " though I 
 have put you to very great inconvenience. The case was 
 urgent and I could not leave it in the hands of others. 
 Of course you could have settled the business with an- 
 other of the directors, but I think — indeed, I know — that 
 you prefer only to see me in these matters. We have 
 worked together so long now, that we understand each 
 other with half a word. Really, I am very sorry to have 
 kept you waiting so long ! " 
 
 "It is of no importance," answered Orsino coolly. 
 " Pray do not speak of it." 
 
 "Of importance — no — perhaps not. That is, as you 
 could not lose by it, it was not of financial importance. 
 But when I have made an engagement, I like to keep it. 
 In business, so much depends upon keeping small engage- 
 ments — and they may mean quite as much in the rela- 
 tions of society. However, as you are so kind, we will 
 not speak of it again. I have made my excuses and you 
 have accepted them. Let that end the matter. To busi- 
 ness, now, Don Orsino — ^to business ! " 
 
 Orsino fancied that Del Ferice's manner was not quite 
 natural. He was generally more quiet. His rather 
 watery blue eyes did- not usually look so wide awake, his 
 fat white hands were not commonly so active in their 
 gestures. Altogether he seemed more nervous, and at 
 the same time better pleased with himself and with life 
 than usual. Orsino wondered what had happened. He 
 
DON ORSINO. 429 
 
 had perhaps made some very successful stroke in his 
 affairs during the three days he had spent in ISTaples. 
 
 " So let us now have a look into your contracts, Don 
 Orsino," he said. " Or rather, look into the state of the 
 account yourself if you wish to do so, for I have already 
 examined it." 
 
 " T am familiar enough with the details," answered the 
 young man. "I do not need to look over everything. 
 The books have been audited as you see. The only thing 
 left to be done is to hand over the work to you, since it 
 is executed according to the contract. You doubtless 
 remember that verbal part of the agreement. You receive 
 the buildings as they now stand and our credit cash if 
 there is any, in full discharge of all the obligations of 
 Andrea Contini and Company to the bank — acceptances 
 coming due, balance of account if in debit, and mortgages 
 on land and houses — and we are quits again, my firm being 
 discharged of all obligation." 
 
 Del Fence's expression changed a little and became 
 more grave. 
 
 "Doubtless," he answered, "there was a tacit under- 
 standing to that effect. Yes — yes — I remember. Indeed 
 it was not altogether tacit. A word was said about it, 
 and a word is as good as a contract. Very well, Don 
 Orsino — very well. Since you desire it, we will cry quits 
 again. This kind of business is not very profitable to the 
 bank — not very — but it is not actual loss." 
 
 " It is not profitable to us," observed Orsino. " If you 
 do not wish any more of it, we do not." 
 
 "Eeally?" 
 
 Del Ferice looked at him rather curiously as though 
 wishing that he would say more. Orsino met his glance 
 steadily, expecting to be informed of the nature of the 
 next contract to be forced upon him. 
 
 " So you really prefer to discontinue these operations — 
 if I may call them so," said Del Ferice thoughtfully. 
 "It is strange that you should, I confess. I remember 
 that you much desired to take a part in affairs, to be an 
 
430 I>ON ORSINO. 
 
 actor in the interesting doings of the day, to be a finan- 
 cial personage, in short. You have had your wish, Don 
 Orsino. Your firm plays an important part in Eome. Do 
 you remember our first interview on the steps of Monte 
 Citorio ? You asked me whether I could and would help 
 you to enter business. I promised that I would, and I 
 have kept my word. The sums mentioned in those pa- 
 pers, here, show that I have done all I promised. You 
 told me that you had fifteen thousand francs at your dis- 
 posal. Prom that small beginning I have shown you how 
 to deal with millions. But you do not seem to care for 
 business, after all, Don Orsino. You really do not seem 
 to care for it, though I must confess that you have a 
 remarkable talent. It is very strange." 
 
 "Is it?" asked Orsino with a shade of contempt. 
 "You may remember that my business has not been 
 profitable, in spite of what you call my talent, and in 
 spite of what I know to have been hard work." 
 
 Del Ferice smiled softly. 
 
 "That is quite another matter," he answered. "If 
 you had asked me whether you could make a fortune 
 at this time, I would have told you that it was quite 
 impossible without enormous capital. Quite impossible. 
 Understand that, if you please. But, negatively, you 
 have profited, because others have failed — hundreds of 
 firms and contractors — while you have lost but the 
 paltry fifteen thousand or so with which you began. 
 And you have acquired great knowledge and experience. 
 Therefore, on the whole, you have been the gainer. In 
 balancing an account one takes but the sordid debit and 
 credit and compares them — but in estimating the value 
 of a firm one should consider its reputation and the good- 
 will it has created. The name of Andrea Contini and 
 Company is a power in Eome. That is the result of 
 your work, and it is not a loss." 
 
 Orsino said nothing, but leaned back in his chair, 
 gloomily staring at the wall. He wondered when Del 
 Terice would come to the point, and begin to talk about 
 the new contract. 
 
DON OKSINO. 431 
 
 " You do not seem to agree with me," observed Ugo in 
 an. injured tone. 
 
 "Not altogether, I confess," replied the young man 
 with a contemptuous laugh. 
 
 "Well, well — it is no matter — it is of no importance 
 — of no consequence whatever," said Del Ferice, who 
 seemed inclined to repeat himself and to lengthen his 
 phrases as though he wished to gain time. " Only this, 
 Don Orsino. I would remind you that you have just 
 executed a piece of work successfully, which no other 
 firm in Eome could have carried out without failure, 
 under the present depression. It seems to me that you 
 have every reason to congratulate yourself. Of course, 
 it was impossible for me to understand that you really 
 cared for a large profit — for actual money " 
 
 "And I do not," interrupted Orsino with more warmth 
 than he had hitherto shown. 
 
 "But, in that case, you ought to be more than satis- 
 fied," objected Ugo suavely. 
 
 Orsino grew impatient at last and spoke out frankly. 
 
 "I cannot be satisfied with a position of absolute 
 dependence, from which I cannot escape except by bank- 
 ruptcy. You know that I am completely in your power. 
 You know very well that while you are talking to me 
 now you contemplate making your usual condition before 
 crying quits, as you express it. You intend to impose 
 another and probably "a larger piece of work on me, 
 which I shall be obliged to undertake on the same terms 
 as before,, because if I do not accept it, it is in your power 
 to ruin me at once. And this state of things may go on 
 for years. That is the enviable position of Andrea Con- 
 tini and Company." 
 
 Del Perice assumed an air of injured dignity. 
 
 " If you think anything of this kind you greatly mis- 
 judge me," he said. 
 
 "I do not see why I should judge otherwise," retorted 
 Orsino. " That is exactly what took place on the last 
 occasion, and what will take place now " 
 
432 DON ORSINO. 
 
 " I think not," said Del Ferice very quietly, and watch- 
 ing him. 
 
 Orsino was somewhat startled by the words, but his 
 face betrayed nothing. It was clear to him that Ugo 
 had something new to propose, and it was not easy to 
 guess the nature of the coming proposition. 
 
 "Will you kindly explain yourself ? " he asked. 
 
 " My dear Don Orsino, there is nothing to explain," 
 replied Del Ferice again becoming very bland. 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 " No ? It is very simple. You have finished the 
 buildings. The bank will take them over and consider 
 the account closed. You stated the position yourself in 
 the most precise terms. I do not see why you should 
 suppose that the bank wishes to impose anything upon 
 you which you are not inclined to accept. I really do 
 not see why you should think anything of the kind." 
 
 In the dead silence which followed Orsino coiild hear 
 his own heart beating loudly. He wondered whether he 
 had heard aright. He wondered whether this were not 
 some new manoeuvre on Del Ferice's part by which he 
 must ultimately fall still more completely under the 
 banker's domination. Ugo doubtless meant to qualify 
 what he had just said by adding a clause. Orsino waited 
 for what was to follow. 
 
 "Am I to understand that this does not suit your 
 wishes ? " inquired Ugo, presently. 
 
 " On the contrary, it would suit me perfectly," an- 
 swered Orsino controlling his voice with some difficulty. 
 
 " In that case, there is nothing more to be said," ob- 
 served Del Ferice. " The bank will give you a formal 
 release — indeed, I think the notary is at this moment 
 here. I am very glad to be able to meet your views, 
 Don Orsino. Very glad, I am sure. It is always pleas- 
 ant to find that amicable relations have been preserved 
 after a long and somewhat complicated business connex- 
 ion. The bank owes it to you, I am sure " 
 
 "I am quite willing to owe that to the bank," an- 
 
DON ORSINO. 433 
 
 swered Orsino with a ready smile. He was almost beside 
 himself with joy. 
 
 "You are very good, I assure you," said Del Ferice, 
 with much politeness. He touched a bell and his con- 
 fidential clerk appeared. 
 
 " Cancel these drafts," he said, giving the man a small 
 bundle of bills. "Direct the notary to prepare a deed 
 of sale, transferring all this property, as was done be- 
 fore " he hesitated. " I will see him myself in ten 
 
 minutes," he added. " It will be simpler. The account 
 of Andrea Contini is balanced and closed. Make out a 
 preliminary receipt for all dues whatsoever and bring it 
 to me." 
 
 The clerk stared for one moment as though he believed 
 that Del Ferice were mad. Then he went out. 
 
 " I am sorry to lose you, Don Orsino," said Del Ferice, 
 thoughtfully rolling his big silver pencil case on the 
 table. "All the legal papers will be ready to-morrow 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Pray express to the directors my best thanks for so 
 speedily winding up the business," answered Orsino. 
 "I think that, after all, I have no great talent for 
 affairs." 
 
 " On the contrary, oo the contrary," protested Ugo. 
 " I have a great deal to say against that statement." 
 And he eulogised Orsino's gifts almost without pausing 
 for breath until the clerk returned with the' preliminary 
 receipt. Del Ferice signed it and handed it to Orsino 
 with a smile. 
 
 "This was unnecessary," said the young man. "I 
 could have waited until to-morrow." 
 
 "A matter of conscience, dear Don Orsino — nothing 
 more." 
 
 2f 
 
434 DON ORSINO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Orsino was free at last. The whole matter was in- 
 comprehensible to him, and almost mysterious, so that 
 after he had at last received his legal release he spent 
 his time in trying to discover the motives of Del Ferice's 
 conduct. The simplest explanation seemed to be that 
 Ugo had not derived as much profit from the last con- 
 tract as he had hoped for, though it had been enough to 
 justify him in keeping his informal engagement with 
 Contini and Company, and that he feared a new and 
 unfavourable change in business which made any further 
 speculations of the kind dangerous. For some time 
 Orsino believed this to have been the ease, but events 
 proved that he was mistaken. He dissolved his partner- 
 ship with Contini, but Andrea Contini and Company 
 still continued to exist. The new partner was no less a 
 personage than Del Ferice himself, who was constantly 
 represented in the firm by the confidential clerk who has 
 been more than once mentioned in this history, and who 
 was a friend of Contini's. What terms Contini made for 
 himself, Orsino never knew, but it is certain that the 
 architect prospered from that time and is still pros- 
 perous. 
 
 Late in the spring of that year 1890 Eoman society 
 was considerably surprised by the news of a most unex- 
 pected marriage. The engagement had been carefully 
 kept a secret, the banns had been published in Palermo, 
 the civil and religious ceremonies had taken place there, 
 and the happy couple had already reached Paris before 
 either of them thought of informing their friends and 
 before any notice of the event appeared in the papers. 
 Even then, society felt itself aggrieved by the laconic 
 form in which the information was communicated. 
 
 The statement, indeed, left nothing to be desired on 
 the score of plainness or conciseness of style. Count 
 
DON OESINO. 435 
 
 Del Feriee had married Maria Consuelo d'Aranjuez 
 d'Aragona. 
 
 Two persons only received the intelligence a few days 
 before it was generally made known. One was Orsino 
 and the other was Spicca. The letters were characteris- 
 tic and may be worth reproducing. 
 
 "My Father" (Maria Consuelo wrote) — "I am married to 
 Count Del Feriee, with whom I think that you are acquainted. 
 There is no reason why I should enter into any explanation of 
 my reasons for taking this step. There are plenty which every- 
 body can see. My husband's present position and great wealth 
 make him what the world calls a good match, and my fortune 
 places me above the suspicion of having married him for his 
 money. If his bu'th was not originally of the highest, it was at 
 least as good as mine, and society will say that the marriage 
 was appropriate in all its circumstances. You are aware that I 
 could not be married without informing my husband and the 
 municipal authorities of my parentage, by presenting copies of 
 the registers in Nice. Count Del Feriee was good enough to 
 overlook some little peculiarity in the relation between the dates 
 of my birth and your marriage. We will therefore say no more 
 about the matter. The object of this letter is to let you know 
 that those facts have been communicated to several persons, as 
 a matter of necessity. . I do not expect you to congratulate me. 
 I congratulate myself, however, with all my heart. Within two 
 years I have freed myself from my worthy mother, I have placed 
 myself beyond your power to injure me, and I have escaped 
 ruining a man I loved by marrying him. I have laid the foun- 
 dations of peace if not of happiness. 
 
 " The Princess is very ill but hopes to reach Normandy before 
 the summer begins. My husband will be obliged to be often in 
 Kome but will come to me from time to time, as I cannot leave 
 the Princess at present. She is trying, however, to select among 
 her acquaintance another lady in waiting — the more willingly 
 as she is not pleased with my marriage. Is that a satisfaction 
 to you ? I expect to spend the winter in Rome. 
 
 "Maria Consuelo Del Ferice." 
 
 This was the letter by which Maria Consuelo announced 
 her marriage to the father whom she so sincerely hated. 
 For cruelty of language and expression it was not to be 
 
436 DON OESINO. 
 
 compared -with the one she had written to him after part- 
 ing with Orsino. But had she known how the news she • 
 now conveyed would affect the old man who was to learn 
 it, her heart might have softened a little towards him, 
 even after all she had suffered. Very different were the 
 lines Orsino received from her at the same time. 
 
 " My dear Friend — When you read this letter, which I 
 write on the eve of my marriage, but shall not send till some days 
 have passed, you must think of me as the wife of Ugo Del Ferice. 
 To-night, I am still Maria Consuelo. I have something to say 
 to you, and you must read it patiently, for I shall never say it 
 again — and after all, it will not be much. Is it right of me to 
 say it? I do not know. Until to-morrow I have still time to 
 refuse to be married. Therefore I am still a free agent, and en- 
 titled to think freely. After to-morrow it will be different. , 
 
 "I wish, dear, that I could tell you all the truth. Perhaps 
 you would not be ashamed of having loved the daughter of 
 Lucrezia Ferris. But I cannot tell you aU. There are reasons 
 why you had better never know it. But I wiU teU you this, for I 
 must say it once. I love you very dearly. I loved you long 
 ago, I loved you when I left you in Rome, I have loved you ever 
 since, and I am afraid that I shall love you until I die. 
 
 " It is not foolish of me to write the words, though it may 
 be wrong. If I love you, it is because I know you. We shall 
 meet before long, and then meet, perhaps, hundreds of times, 
 and more, for I am to live in Rome. I know that you will be 
 all you should be, or I would not speak now as I never spoke 
 before, at the moment when I am raising an impassable barrier 
 between us by my own free will. If you ever loved me — and 
 you did — you will respect that barrier in deed and word, and 
 even in thought. You will remember only that I loved you 
 with all my heart on the day before my marriage. You will 
 forget even to think that I may love you still to-morrow, and 
 think tenderly of you on the day after that. 
 
 " You are free now, dear, and can begin your real life. How 
 do I know it? Del Ferice has told me that he has released 
 you — for we sometimes speak of you. He has even shown me 
 a copy of the legal act of release, which he chanced to find 
 among the papers he had brought. An accident, perhaps. Or, 
 perhaps he knows that I loved you.. I do not care — I had a 
 right to, then. 
 
DON OESINO. 437 
 
 " So you are quite free. I like to think that you have come 
 out of all your troubles quite unscathed, young, your name un- 
 tarnished, your hands clean. I am glad that you answered the 
 letter I wrote to you from Egypt and told me all, and wrote 
 so often afterwards. I could not do much beyond give you my 
 sympathy, and I gave it all — to the uttermost. You will not 
 need any more of it. You are free now, thank God ! 
 
 " If you think of me, wish me peace, dear — I do not ask for 
 anything nearer to happiness than that. But I wish you many 
 things, the least of which should make you happy. Most of all, 
 I wish that you may some day love well and truly, and win the 
 reality of which you once thought you held the shadow. Can 
 I say more than that? No loving woman can. 
 
 " And so, good-bye — good-bye, love of all my life, good-bye 
 dear, dear Orsino — I think this is the hardest good-bye of all — 
 when we are to meet so soon. I cannot write any more. Once 
 again, the last — the very last time, for ever — I love you. 
 
 " Maria Consoelo." 
 
 A strange sensation came over Orsino as he read this 
 letter. He was not able at first to realise much beyond 
 the fact that Maria Consuelo was actually married to Del 
 Eerice — a match than which none imaginable could have 
 been more unexpected. But he felt that there was more 
 behind the facts than he was able to grasp, almost more 
 than he dared to guess at. A mysterious horror filled his 
 mind as he read and reread the lines. There was no 
 doubting the sincerity of what she said. He doubted the 
 survival of his own love much more. She could have no 
 reason whatever for writing as she did, on the eve of her 
 marriage, no reason beyond the irresistible desire to speak 
 out all her heart once only and for the last time. Again 
 and again he went over the passages which struck him as 
 most strange. Then the truth flashed upon him. Maria 
 Consuelo had sold herself to free him from his difficul- 
 ties, to save him from the terrible alternatives of either 
 wasting his life as Del Ferice's slave or of ruining his 
 family. 
 
 With a smothered exclamation, between an oath and a 
 groan of pain, Orsino threw himself upon the divan and 
 
438 DON OESINO. 
 
 buried his face in his hands. It is kinder to leave him 
 there for a time, alone. 
 
 Poor Spicca broke down under this last blow. In vain 
 old Santi got out the cordial from the press in the corner, 
 and did his best to bring his master back to his natural 
 self. In vain Spicca roused himself, forced himself to 
 eat, went out, walked his hour, dragging his feet after 
 him, and attempted to exchange a word with his friends 
 at the club. He seemed to have got his death wound. 
 His head sank lower on his breast, his long emaciated 
 frame stooped more and more, the thin hands grew daily- 
 more colourless, and the deathly face daily more deathly 
 pale. Days passed away, and weeks, and it was early 
 June. He no longer tried to go out. Santi tried to pre- 
 vail upon him to take a little air in a cab, on the Via 
 Appia. It would be money well spent, he said, apologis- 
 ing for suggesting such extravagance. Spicca shook his 
 head, and kept to his chair by the open window. Then, 
 on a certain morning, he was worse and had not the 
 strength to rise from his bed. 
 
 On that very morning a telegram came. He looked at 
 it as though hardly understanding what he should do, as 
 Santi held it before him. Then he opened it. His 
 fingers did not tremble even now. The iron nerve of the 
 great swordsman survived still. 
 
 "Ventuor — Rome. Count Spicca. The Princess is dead. I 
 know the truth at last. God forgive me and bless you. I 
 come to you at once. — Maria Consuelo." 
 
 Spicca read the few words printed on the white strip 
 that was pasted to the yellow paper. Then his hands 
 sank to his sides and he closed his eyes. Santi thought 
 it was the end, and burst into tears as he fell to his knees 
 by the bed. 
 
 Half an hour passed. Then Spicca raised his head, 
 and made a gesture with his hand. 
 
 " Do not be a fool, Santi, I am not dead yet," he said, 
 
DON OESINO. 439 
 
 with kindly impatience. "Get up and send for Don 
 Orsino Saracinesca, if he is still in Rome." 
 
 Santi left the room, drying his eyes and uttering inco- 
 herent exclamations of astonishment mingled with a singu- 
 lar cross fire of praise and prayer directed to the Saints 
 and of imprecations upon himself for his own stupidity. 
 
 Before noon Orsino appeared. He was gaunt and pale, 
 and more like San Giacinto than ever. There was a 
 settled hardness in his face which was never again to 
 disappear permanently. But he was horror-struck by 
 Spicca's appearance. He had no idea that a man already 
 so cadaverous could still change as the old man had 
 changed. Spicca seemed little more than a grey shadow 
 liarely resting upon the white bed. He put the telegram 
 into Orsino's hands. The young man read it twice and 
 his face expressed his astonishment. Spicca smiled 
 faintly, as he watched him. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked Orsino. "Of what truth 
 does she speak ? She hated you, and now, all at once, she 
 loves you. I do not understand." 
 
 " How should you ? " The old man spoke in a clear, 
 thin voice, very unlike his own. " Yoii could not under- 
 stand. But before I die, I will tell you." 
 
 " Do not talk of dying " 
 
 "'Ho. It is not necessary. I realise it enough, and 
 you need not realise it at all. I have not much to tell 
 you, but a little truth will sometimes destroy many false- 
 hoods. You remember the story about Lucrezia Ferris ? 
 Maria Consuelo wrote it to you." 
 
 « Remember it ! Could I forget it ? " 
 
 "You may as well. There is not a word of truth in it. 
 Lucrezia Ferris is not her mother." 
 
 "Not her mother!" 
 
 "No. I only wonder how you could ever have 
 believed that a Piedmontese nurse could be the mother 
 of Maria Consuelo. Nor am I Maria Consuelo's father. 
 Perhaps that will not surprise you so much. She does 
 not resemble me, thank Heaven ! " 
 
440 DOK OESINO. 
 
 "What is she then? Who is she?" asked Orsino 
 impatiently. 
 
 " To tell you that I must tell you the story. When I 
 was young — very long before you were born — I travelled 
 much, and I was well received. I was rich and of good 
 family. At a certain court in Europe — I was at one time 
 in the diplomacy — I loved a lady whom I could not have 
 married, even had she been free. Her station was far 
 above mine. She was also considerably older than I, and 
 she paid very little attention to me, I confess. But I 
 loved her. She is just dead. She was that princess 
 mentioned in this telegram. Do you understand? Do 
 you hear me ? My voice is weak." 
 
 " Perfectly. Pray go on." 
 
 " Maria Consuelo is her grandchild — the granddaughter 
 of the only woman I ever loved. Understand that, too. 
 It happened in this way. My Princess had but one 
 daughter, the Princess Marie, a mere child when I first 
 saw her — not more than fourteen years old. We were 
 all in Nice, one winter thirty years ago — some four years 
 after I had first met the Princess. I travelled in order to 
 see her, and she was always kind to me, though she did 
 not love me. Perhaps I was useful, too, before that. 
 People were always afraid of me, because I could handle 
 the foils. It was thirty years ago, and the Princess 
 Marie was eighteen. Poor child ! " 
 
 Spicca paused a moment, and passed his transparent 
 hand over his eyes. 
 
 " I think I understand," said Orsino. 
 
 " No you do not," answered Spicca, with unexpected 
 sharpness. " You will not understand, until I have told 
 you everything. The Princess Marie fell ill, or pretended 
 to fall ill while we were at Nice. But she could not con- 
 ceal the truth long — at least not from her mother. She 
 had already taken into her confidence a little Piedmon- 
 tese maid, scarcely older than herself — a certain Lucrezia 
 Perris — and she allowed no other woman to come near 
 her. Then she told her mother the truth. She loved a 
 
DON ORSINO. 441 
 
 man of her own rank and not much older — not yet of age, 
 in fact. Unfortunately, as happens with such people, a 
 marriage was diplomatically impossible. He was not of 
 her nationality and the relations were strained. But she 
 had married him nevertheless, secretly and, as it turned 
 out, without any legal formalities. It is questionable 
 whether the marriage, even then, could have been proved 
 to be valid, for she was a Catholic and he was not, and a 
 Catholic priest had married them without proper authori- 
 sation or dispensation. But they were both in earnest, 
 both young and both foolish. The husband — his name 
 is of no importance — was very far away at the time we 
 were in Nice, and was quite unable to come to her. She 
 was about to be a mother and she turned to her own 
 mother in her extremity, with a full confession of the 
 truth." 
 
 "I see," said Orsino. "And you adopted " 
 
 "You do not see yet. The Princess came to me for 
 advice. The situation was an extremely delicate one 
 from all points of view. To declare the marriage at that 
 moment might have produced extraordinary complica- 
 tions, for the countries to which the two young people 
 belonged were on the verge of a war which was only re- 
 tarded by the extraordinary genius of one man. To con- 
 ceal it seemed equally dangerous, if not more so. The 
 Princess Marie's reputation was at stake — ^the reputation 
 of a young girl, as people supposed her to be, remember 
 that. Various schemes suggested themselves. I cannot 
 tell what would have been done, for fate decided the 
 matter— tragically, as fate does. The young husband 
 was killed while on a shooting expedition — at least so it 
 was stated. I always believed that he shot himself. It 
 was all very mysterious. We could not keep the news 
 from the Princess Marie. That night Maria Consuelo 
 was born. On the next day, her mother died. The shock 
 had killed her. The secret was now known to the old 
 Princess, to me, to Lucrezia Ferris and to the French 
 doctor— a man of great skill and discretion. Maria Con- 
 
442 DON OESINO. 
 
 suelo was the nameless orphan child of an unacknowl- 
 edged marriage — of a marriage which was certainly not 
 legal, and which the Church must hesitate to ratify. 
 Again we saw that the complications, diplomatic and of 
 other kinds, which would arise if the truth were published, 
 would be enormous. The Prince himself was not yet in 
 Nice and was quite ignorant of the true cause of his 
 daughter's sudden death. But he would arrive in forty- 
 eight hours, and it was necessary to decide upon some 
 course. We could rely upon the doctor and upon our 
 two selves — the Princess and I. Lucrezia Perris seemed 
 to be a sensible, quiet girl, and she certainly proved to be 
 discreet for a long time. The Princess was distracted 
 with grief and beside herself with anxiety. Eemember 
 that I loved her — that explains what I did. I proposed 
 the plan which was carried out and with which you are 
 acquainted. I took the child, declared it to be mine, 
 and married Lucrezia. The only legal documents in 
 existence concerning Maria Consuelo prove her to be my 
 daughter. The priest who had married the poor Princess 
 Marie could never be found. Terrified, perhaps, at what 
 he had done, he disappeared — probably as a monk in an 
 Austrian monastery. I hunted him for years. Lucrezia 
 Perris was discreet for two reasons. She received a large 
 sum of money, and a large allowance afterwards, and later 
 on it appears that she further enriched herself at Maria 
 Consuelo's expense. Avarice was her chief fault, and by 
 it we held her. Secondly, however, she was well aware, 
 and knows to-day, that no one would believe her story if 
 she told the truth. The proofs are all positive and legal 
 for Maria Consuelo's supposed parentage, and there is 
 not a trace of evidence in favour of the truth. You 
 know the story now. I am glad I have been able to tell 
 it to you. I will rest now, for I am very tired. If I am 
 alive to-morrow, come and see me — good-bye, in case 
 you should not find me." 
 
 Orsino pressed the wasted hand and went out silently, 
 more affected than he owned by the dying man's words 
 
DON OKSINO. 443 
 
 and looks. It was a painful story of well-meant mistakes, 
 he thought, and it explained many things which he had not 
 understood. Linking it with all he knew besides, he had 
 the whole history of Spicea's mysterious, broken life, 
 together with the explanation of some points in his own 
 which had never been clear to him. The old cynic of a 
 duellist had been a man of heart, after all, and had sac- 
 rificed his whole existence to keep a secret for a woman 
 whom he loved but who did not care for him. That was 
 all. She was dead and he was dying. The secret was 
 already half buried in the past. If it were told now, no 
 one would believe it. 
 
 Orsino returned on the following day. He had sent 
 for news several times, and was told that Spicca still 
 lingered. He saw him again but the old man seemed 
 very weak and only spoke a few words during the hour 
 Orsino spent with him. The doctor had said that he 
 might possibly live, but that there was not much hope. 
 
 And again on the next day Orsino came back. He 
 started as he entered the room. An old Franciscan, a 
 Minorite, was by the bedside, speaking in low tones. 
 Orsino made as though he would withdraw, but Spicca 
 feebly beckoned to him to stay, and the monk rose. 
 
 " Good-bye," whispered Spicca, following him with his 
 sunken eyes. 
 
 Orsino led the Franciscan out. At the outer door the 
 latter turned to Orsino with a strange look and laid a hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 "Who are you, my son ? " he asked. 
 
 " Orsino Saracinesca." 
 
 " A friend of his ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He has done terrible things in his long life. But he 
 has done noble things, too, and has suffered much, and in 
 silence. He has earned his rest, and God will forgive 
 
 him." 
 
 The monk bowed his head and went out. Orsino re- 
 entered the room and took the vacant chair beside the 
 
444 DON OKSINO. 
 
 bed. He touched Spicca's hand almost affectionately, but 
 the latter withdrew it with an effort. He had never liked 
 sympathy, and liked it least when another would have 
 needed it most. For a considerable time neither spoke. 
 The pale hand lay peacefully upon the pillows, the long, 
 shadowy frame was wrapped in a gown of dark woollen 
 material. 
 
 " Do you think she will come to-day ? " asked the old 
 man at length. 
 
 " She may come to-day — I hope so," Orsino answered. 
 
 A long pause followed. 
 
 " I hope so, too," Spicca whispered. " I have not much 
 strength left. I cannot wait much longer." 
 
 Again there was silence. Orsino knew that there was 
 nothing to be said, nothing at least which he could say, 
 to cheer the last hours of the lonely life. But Spicca 
 seemed contented that he should sit there. 
 
 " Give me that photograph," he said, suddenly, a quar- 
 ter of an hour later. 
 
 Orsino looked about him but could not see what Spicca 
 wanted. 
 
 " Hers," said the feeble voice, " in the next room." 
 
 It was the photograph in the little chiselled frame — 
 the same frame which had once excited Donna Tullia's 
 scorn. Orsino brought it quickly from its place over the 
 chimney-piece, and held it before his friend's eyes. Spicca 
 gazed at it a long time in silence. 
 
 " Take it away," he said, at last. " It is not like her." 
 
 Orsino put it aside and sat down again. Presently 
 Spicca turned a little on the pillow and looked at him. 
 
 "Do you remember that I once said I wished you 
 might marry her ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It was quite true. You iinderstand now ? I could 
 not tell you then." 
 
 "Yes. I understand everything now," 
 
 " But I am sorry I said it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
DON OESINO. 445 
 
 "Perhaps it influenced you and has hurt your life. I 
 am sorry. You must forgive me." 
 
 '?'°'"-i^®^^®'^'^ sake, do not distress yourself about 
 such trifles," said Orsino, earnestly. « There is nothing 
 to forgive." 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Orsiuo looked at him, pondering on the peaceful' end- 
 ing of the strange life, and wondering what manner of 
 heart and soul the man had really lived with. With 
 the intuition which sometimes comes to dying persons, 
 Spicca understood, though it was long before he spoke 
 again. There was a faint touch of his old manner in his 
 words. 
 
 " I am an awful example, Orsino," he said, with the 
 ghost of a smile. " Do not imitate me. Do not sacrifice 
 your life for the love of any woman. Try and appreci- 
 ate sacrifices in others." 
 The smile died away again. 
 
 "And yet I am glad I did it," he added, a moment 
 later. "Perhaps it was all a mistake — but I did my 
 best." 
 
 " You did indeed," Orsino answered gravely. 
 He meant what he said, though he felt that it had 
 indeed been all a mistake, as Spicca suggested. The 
 young face was very thoughtful. Spicca little knew how 
 hard his last cynicism hit the man beside him, for whose 
 freedom and safety the woman of whom Spicca was 
 thinking had sacrificed so very much. He would die 
 without knowing that. 
 
 The door opened softly and a woman's light footstep 
 was on the threshold. Maria Cousuelo came silently 
 and swiftly forward with outstretched hands that had 
 clasped the dying man's almost before Orsino realised 
 that it was she herself. She fell on her knees beside 
 the bed and pressed the powerless cold fingers to her 
 forehead. 
 
 Spicca started and for one moment raised his head 
 from the pillow. It fell back almost instantly. A look 
 
446 DON OESINO. 
 
 of supreme happiness flashed over the deathly features, 
 followed by an expression of pain. 
 
 " Why did you marry him ? " he asked in tones so loud 
 that Orsino started, and Maria Consuelo looked up with 
 streaming eyes. 
 
 She did not answer, but tried to soothe him, rising and 
 caressing his hand, and smoothing his pillows. 
 
 "Tell me why you married him !" he cried again. "I 
 am dying — I must know ! " 
 
 She bent down very low and whispered into his ear. 
 He shook his head impatiently. 
 
 " Louder ! I cannot hear ! Louder ! " 
 
 Again she whispered, more distinctly this time, and 
 casting an imploring glance at Orsino, who was too much 
 disturbed to understand. 
 
 "Louder!" gasped the dying man, struggling to sit 
 up. " Louder ! my God ! I shall die without hearing 
 you — without knowing " 
 
 It would have been inhuman to torture the departing 
 soul any longer. Then Maria Consuelo made her last 
 sacrifice. She spoke in calm, clear tones. 
 
 " I married to save the man I loved." 
 
 Spicca's expression changed. For fully twenty sec- 
 onds his sunken eyes remained fixed, gazing into hers. 
 Then the light began to flash in them for the last time, 
 keen as the lightning. 
 
 "God have mercy on you! God reward you!" he 
 cried. 
 
 The shadowy flgure quivered throughout its length, 
 was still, then quivered again, then sprang up suddenly 
 with a leap, and Spicca was standing on the floor, clasp- 
 ing Maria Consuelo in his arms. All at once there was 
 colour in his face and the fire grew bright in his glance. 
 
 " Oh, my darling, I have loved you so ! " he cried. 
 
 He almost lifted her from the ground as he pressed his 
 lips passionately upon her -forehead. His long thin 
 hands relaxed suddenly, and the light broke in his eyes ' 
 as when a mirror is shivered by a blow. For an instant 
 
DON ORsmo. 447 
 
 that seemed an age, he stood upright, dead already, and 
 then fell back all his length across the bed with wide 
 extended arms. 
 
 There was a short, sharp sob, and then a sound of 
 passionate weeping filled the silent room. Strongly and 
 tenderly Orsino laid his dead friend upon the couch as he 
 had lain alive but two minutes earlier. He crossed the 
 hands upon the breast and gently closed the staring eyes. 
 He could not have had Maria Consuelo see him as he had 
 fallen, when she next looked up. 
 
 A little later they stood side by side, gazing at the 
 calm dead face, in a long silence. How long they stood, 
 they never knew, for their hearts were very full. The 
 sun was going down and the evening light filled the 
 room. 
 
 "Did he tell you, before he died — about me? "asked 
 Maria Consuelo in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes. He told me everything." 
 
 Maria Consuelo went forward and bent over the face 
 and kissed the white forehead, and made the sign of the 
 Cross upon it. Then she turned and took Orsino's hand 
 in hers. 
 
 " I could not help your hearing what I said, Orsino. 
 He was dying, you see. You know all, now." 
 
 Orsino's fingers pressed hers desperately. For a 
 moment he could not speak. Then the agonised words 
 came with a great effort, harshly but ringing from the 
 heart. 
 
 "And I can give you nothing ! " 
 
 He covered his face and turned away. 
 
 "Give me your friendship, dear — I never had your 
 love," she said. 
 
 It was long before they talked together again. 
 
 This is what I know of young Orsino Saracinesca's life 
 up to the present time. Maria Consuelo, Countess Del 
 Ferice, was right. She never had his love as he had hers. 
 Perhaps the power of loving so is not in him. He is, 
 after all, more like San Giacinto than any other member 
 
448 DON OESINO. 
 
 of the family, cold, perhaps, and hard by nature. But 
 these things which I have described have made a man of 
 hmi at an age -when many men are but boys, and he has 
 learnt -what many never learn at all — that there is more 
 true devotion to be found in the world than most people 
 will'acknowledge. He may some day be heard of. He may 
 some day fall under the great passion. Or he may never 
 love at all and may never distinguish himself any more 
 . than his father has done. One or the other may happen, 
 but not both, in all probability. The very greatest pas- 
 sion is rarely compatible with the very greatest success 
 except in extraordinary good or bad natures. And Orsino 
 Saracinesca is not extraordinary in any way. His char- 
 acter has been formed by the unusual circumstances in 
 which he was placed when very young, rather than by any- 
 thing like the self-development which we hear of in the 
 lives of great men. From a somewhat foolish and affect- 
 edly cynical youth he has grown into a decidedly hard 
 and cool-headed man. He is very much seen in society 
 but talks little on the whole. If, hereafter, there should 
 be anything in his life worth recording, another hand 
 than mine may write it down for future readers. 
 
 If any one cares to ask why I have thought it worth 
 the trouble to describe his early years so minutfely, I 
 answer that the young man of the Transition Period 
 interests me. Perhaps I am singular in that. Orsino 
 Saracinesca is a fair type, I think, of his class at his age. 
 I have done my best to be just to him. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE SARACINESCA SERIES. 
 
 DON ORSINO. 
 
 A Continuation of " Saracinesca " and "Sant- Ilario." 
 
 " The tliird in a ratlier remarkable series of novels dealing with 
 three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 
 ' Saracinesca,' ' Sant' Ilario ' and ' Don Orsino,' and these novels present 
 an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the 
 present century. Each one of these novels is worthy of very careful 
 reading and offers exceptional enjoyment in many ways, in the 
 fascinating absorption of good fiction, in interest of faithful historic 
 accuracy, and in charm of style. The ' new Italy ' is strikingly 
 revealed in 'Don Orsino.' " — Boston Budget. 
 
 " We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all 
 Mr. Crawford's fictions. Certainly it is the best novel of the season." 
 — Evening Bulletin. 
 
 SANT' ILARIO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca." 
 
 ' ' The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 
 ' Sant' Ilario ' is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca 
 family. ... A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Ad- 
 mirably developed, with a naturalness beyond praise. ... It must 
 rank with ' Greifenstein ' as the best work the author has produced. 
 It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is 
 most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effective- 
 ness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, 
 accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in 
 analysis, and absorbing in interest." — Neio York Tribune. 
 
 SARACINESCA. 
 
 "His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The 
 work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make 
 it great, — that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giv- 
 ing a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope's 
 temporal power. . . . The story is exquisitely told."— Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 "One of the most engrossing novels we have ever TiesiA.."— Boston 
 Times. 
 
 The three volumes in a box, $3.00. 
 Half morocco, $8.00. Half calf, $7.50. 
 2 
 
THE THREE FATES. 
 
 " The strength of the story lies in its portrayal of the aspirations, 
 disciplinary efEorts, trials and triumphs of the man who is a born 
 writer, and who, by long and painful experiences, learns the good 
 that is in him and the way in which to give it eiiectual expression. 
 The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality 
 of each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set forth in an entirely 
 satisfactory manner. . . Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his 
 best qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources 
 as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this 
 story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his 
 productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of Amer- 
 ican, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not 
 hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and 
 felicity." — Boston Beacon. 
 
 THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 
 
 A Fantastic Tale. 
 Illttstkated by W. J. Hennessy. 
 
 " ' The Witch of Prague ' is so remarkable a book as to be certain 
 of as wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest inter- 
 est for most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revela- 
 tions of hypnotic science. . . . But ' The Witch of Prague ' is not 
 iaerely a striking exposition of the far-reaching possibilities of a new 
 science ; it is a romance of singular daring and power." — London 
 
 ' ' Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange 
 a one as that which dominates 'The Witch of Prague.' . . . The 
 artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and 
 carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has 
 scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained 
 throughout. ... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting 
 story." — New York Tribune. 
 
 "But Mr. Crawford has not lost his oft-proved skill in holding 
 his readers' attention, and there are single scenes and passages in this 
 book that rival in intensity anything he has ever written." — Christian 
 Union. 
 
A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE. 
 
 "It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic 
 povrer."~Boston Commercial BxMetin. 
 
 "It Is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. 
 Crawford's hooks."— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 " The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Craw- 
 ford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism 
 is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed 
 under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic 
 and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to 
 take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surround- 
 ings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement 
 passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
 with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emo- 
 tional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the pro- 
 foundest interest." — Wew York Tribune. 
 
 "In the 'Cigarette-maker's Romance 'Mr. Crawford may be said 
 to have given new evidence of the novel-maker's art. . . . It is to be 
 hoped that every one who reads Mr. Crawford's tale will heed of the 
 rare finish of his literary work, a model in its kind." — The Critic. 
 
 GREIFENSTEIN. 
 
 " ' Greifenstein ' is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates 
 once more the author's unusual versatility, it also shows that he has 
 not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier 
 books. . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. 
 The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of 
 their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and 
 women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types 
 ot a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated 
 until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 
 ' noblesse oblige ' is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the 
 fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of 
 is startlingly shown." — New York Tribune. 
 
 "... Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It 
 possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual abil- 
 ity. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even 
 on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Craw- 
 ford's work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read 
 with a great deal of interest. "—iViSM York Evening Telegram. 
 
 4 
 
MR. ISAACS. 
 
 A Tale of Modern India. 
 " The -writer first shows the hero in relation with the people of 
 the East and then skilfully brings into connection the Anglo-Saxon 
 race. It is in this showing of the different effects which the two 
 classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one of 
 its chief merits lies. The characters are original and one does not 
 recognize any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to be con- 
 sidered indispensable to novelists, and which, dressed in one guise or 
 another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated by the 
 same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all 
 endowed with individualism and independent life and thought. 
 There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book which is one of 
 its greatest charms." — Boston Traiucrvpt. 
 
 " No story of human experience that we have met with since 
 ' John Inglesant ' has such an effect of transporting the reader into 
 regions differing from his own. ' Mr. Isaacs ' is the best novel that 
 has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions." — The DaAy News 
 London. ' ' 
 
 "This is a fine and noble story. It has freshness lite a new and 
 striking scene on which one has never looked before. It has character 
 and individuality. It has meaning. It is lofty and uplifting. It is 
 strongly, sweetly, tenderly written. It is in all respects an uncommon 
 novel. ... In fine, ' Mr. Isaacs ' is an acquaintance to be made." 
 
 — The Literary World. 
 
 DR. CLAUDIUS. 
 
 A True Story. 
 
 "There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a 
 fund of knowledge, that speaks well for future production. . .' . To 
 be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no mere 
 cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting 
 points and excellences, for without a doubt ' Dr. Claudius ' is the 
 most interesting book that has been published for many months, and 
 richly deserves a high place in the public favor. " — St. Louis Spectator. 
 
 " 'Dr. Claudius' is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so 
 much merit as 'Mr. Isaacs.' The hero is a magnificent specimen of 
 humanity, and sympathetic readers will be fascinated by his chival- 
 rous wooing of the beautiful American countess." — Boston Traveller. 
 
 ' ' To our mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. 
 The story, an exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with 
 much skill ; the characters are strongly marked without any suspi- 
 cion of caricature, and the author's ideas on social and political sub- 
 jects are often brilliant and always striking. It is no exaggeration to 
 say that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted 
 for the recreation of student or tidn]iei."— Living Church. 
 
 5 
 
WITH THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 " Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a 
 thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book 
 prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to al) 
 such we commend it heaxtilj."— Boston Saturday Mening Gazette. 
 
 "The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only 
 to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern 
 thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in 
 proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one 
 whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of 
 assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by 
 his courage and capacity for hard work. The. book will be found to 
 have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. 
 Indeed Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above 
 the ordinary plane of novel interest." — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 
 
 " We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the 
 highest department of character-painting in words." — Ohurchman. 
 
 " ' Marzio's Crucifix ' is another of those tales of modern Rome 
 which show the author so much at his ease. A subtle compound of 
 artistic feeling, avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of 
 silver chalices and crucifixes." — The Ti/mes. 
 
 "We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford pos- 
 sesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His 
 sense of proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease 
 and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, 
 so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent 
 is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story ' Marzio's Cru- 
 cifix ' is perfectly constructed." — New York GommerciaX Advertiser. 
 
 KHALED. 
 
 A Story of Arabia. 
 
 "Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, 
 suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and 
 motive, the building out and development of the character of the 
 woman who becomes the hero's wife and whose love he finally wins 
 being an especially acute and highly-finished example of the story- 
 teller's art. . .. . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest 
 of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know 
 the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford's work need be told. 
 
 —The Chicago Times. 
 
 "It abounds in stirring incidents and barbaric picturesqueness ; 
 and the love struggle of the unloved Khaled is manly in its simplicity 
 and noble in its ending. Mr. Crawford has done nothing better than, 
 if he has done anything as good as, ' Khaled.' " — The Mail and Ex- 
 press. 
 
ZOROASTER. 
 
 "The novel opens with a magnificent description of the inarch of 
 the Babylonian court to Belshazzar's feast, with the sudden and awful 
 ending of the latter by the marvellous writing on the wall which 
 Daniel is called to interpret. From that point the story moves on in a 
 series of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail 
 to hold the reader fascinated and spell-bound to the end. "—rC^n'siian 
 at Work. 
 
 "The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be un- 
 bounded. ... In ' Zoroaster ' Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures 
 a daring flight. . . . Yet ' Zoroaster ' is a novel rather than a drama. 
 It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and 
 dignity of its language ; but its men and women are not men and 
 women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and be- 
 havior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more 
 _thau the same characters on a stage could possibly do." — The 
 
 " As a matter of literary art solely, we doubt if Mr. Crawford has 
 ever before given us better work than the description of Belshaazar's 
 feast with which the story begins, or the death-scene with which it 
 closes. "-T-TAe Ghristian Union. 
 
 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this 
 brief and vivid story. ... It is doubly a success, being full of human 
 sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the 
 unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of iimocence 
 and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue." — Gritic. 
 
 " Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dra- 
 matic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The- taste which is 
 left in one's mind after the story is finished is exactly what the fine 
 reader desires and the novelist intends. ... It has no defects. It is 
 neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect." 
 
 —Boston Beacon. 
 
 " The plot is unfolded and the character-drawing given with the 
 well-known artistic skill of Mr. Crawford, and to those who have not 
 before read it this story will furnish a rare literary treat." 
 
 — Some Journal. 
 1