CHAPTER IX.
HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE.
The room to which Angelo conducts Count Nobili is on the ground-floor, in the same wing as the chapel. It is reached by the same corridor, which traverses all that side of the house. Into this corridor many other doors open. Pipa had chosen it because it was the best room in the house. From the high ceiling, painted in gay frescoes, hangs a large chandelier; the bed is covered with red damask curtains. Such furniture as was available had been carried thither by Pipa and Adamo. One large window, reaching to the ground, looks westward over the low wall.
The sun is setting. The mighty range of mountains are laced with gold; light, fleecy cloudlets float across the sky. Behind rise banks of deepest saffron. These shift and move at first in chaos; then they take the form as of a fiery city. There are domes and towers and pinnacles as of living flame, that burn and glisten. Another moment, and the sun has sunk to rest. The phantom city fades; the ruddy background melts into the gray mountain-side. Dim ghost-like streaks linger about the double summits of La Pagna. They vanish. Nothing then remains but masses of leaden clouds soon to darken into night.
On entering the room, Count Nobili takes a long breath, gazes for a moment on the mountains that rise before him, then turns toward the door, awaiting the arrival of Guglielmi. His restless eye, his shifting color, betray his agitation. The ordeal is not yet over; he must hear what this man has to say.
Maestro Guglielmi enters with a quick, brisk step and easy, confident bearing; indeed, he is in the highest spirits. He had trembled lest Nobili should have insisted upon leaving Corellia immediately after the ceremony when it was still broad daylight. Several unforeseen circumstances had prevented this—Enrica's fainting-fit; the discussion that ensued upon it between Nobili and the old chamberlain—all this had created delay, and afforded him an appropriate opportunity of requesting a private interview. Besides, the cunning lawyer had noted that, during that discussion in the chapel with Cavaliere Trenta, Nobili had evinced indications of other passions besides anger—indications of a certain tenderness in the midst of his vehement sense of the wrong done him by the marchesa. But, what was of far more consequence to Guglielmi was, that all this had the effect of stopping Nobili's immediate departure. That Guglielmi had prevailed upon Nobili to enter the room prepared for him—that he had in so doing domiciled himself voluntarily under the same roof as his wife—was an immense point gained.
All this filled Maestro Guglielmi with the prescience of success. With Nobili in the house, what might not the chapter of accidents produce? All this had occurred, too, without taking into account what the marchesa herself might have planned, when she had read the note of instructions he had written upon a page of his tablets. Guglielmi thought he knew his friend and client the Marchesa Guinigi but little, if her fertile brain had not already created some complication that would have the effect of preventing Count Nobili's departure that night. The instant—the immediate instant—now lay with himself. He was about to make the most of it.
When Guglielmi entered the room, Count Nobili received him with an expression of undisguised disgust. Summoned by Nobili in a peremptory tone to say why he had brought him hither, Guglielmi broke forth with extraordinary volubility. He had used, he declared, his influence with the marchesa throughout for his (Count Nobili's) advantage—solely for his advantage. One word from him, and the Marchesa Guinigi would have availed herself of her legal claims in the most vindictive manner—exposed family secrets—made the whole transaction of the marriage public—and so revenged herself upon him that Count Nobili would have no choice but to leave Lucca and Italy forever.
"All this I have prevented," Guglielmi insisted emphatically. "How could I serve you better?—Could a brother have guarded your honor more jealously? You will come to see and acknowledge the obligation in time—yes, Count Nobili—in time. Time brings all things to light. Time will exhibit my integrity, my disinterested devotion to your interests in their true aspect. All little difficulties settled with my illustrious client, the Marchesa Guinigi (a high-minded and most courageous lady of the heroic type), established in Lucca in the full enjoyment of your enormous wealth—with the lovely lady I have just seen by your side—the enlightened benefactor of the city—the patron of art—the consoler of distress—a leader of the young generation of nobles—the political head of the new Italian party—bearing the grandest name (of course you will adopt that of Guinigi), adorning that name with the example of noble actions—a splendid career opens before you. Yes, Count Nobili—yes—a career worthy of the loftiest ambition!"
"All this I have been the happy means of procuring for you. Another advocate might have exasperated the marchesa's passions for his own purposes; it would have been most easy. But I," continued Guglielmi, bringing his flaming eyes to bear upon Count Nobili, then raising them from him outward toward the darkening mountains as though he would call on the great Apennines to bear witness to his truth—"I have scorned such base considerations. With unexampled magnanimity I have brought about this marriage—all this I have done, actuated by the purest, the most single-hearted motives. In return, Count Nobili, I make one request—I entreat you to believe that I am your friend—"
(Before the lawyer had concluded his peroration, professional zeal had so far transported him that he had convinced himself all he said was true—was he not indeed pleading for his judgeship?)
Guglielmi extended his arms as if about to embrace Count Nobili!
All this time Nobili had stood as far removed from him as possible. Nobili had neither moved nor raised his head once. He had listened to Guglielmi, as the rocks listen to the splash of the seething waves beating against their side. As the lawyer proceeded, a deep flush gradually overspread his face—when he saw the lawyer's outstretched arms, he retreated to the utmost limits of the room. Guglielmi's arms fell to his side.
"Whatever may be my opinion of you, Signore Avvocato," spoke the count at length, contemplating Guglielmi fixedly, and speaking slowly, as if exercising a strong control over himself—"whether I accept your friendship, or whether I believe any one word you say, is immaterial. It cannot affect in any way what is past. The declaration I made before the altar is the declaration to which I adhere—I am not bound to state my reasons. To me they are overwhelming. I must therefore decline all discussion with you. It is for you to make such arrangements with your client as will insure me a separation. That done, our paths lie far apart."
Who would have recognized the gracious, facile Count Nobili in these hard words? The haughty tone in which they were uttered added to their sting.
We are at best the creatures of circumstances—circumstances had entirely altered him. At that moment, Nobili was at war with all the world. He hated himself—he hated and he mistrusted every one. Guglielmi was not certainly adapted to restore faith in mankind.
Legal habits had taught Maestro Guglielmi to shape his countenance into a mask, fashioned to whatever expression he might desire to assume. Never had the trick been so difficult! The intense rage that possessed him was uncontrollable. For the first moment he stood stolidly mute. Then he struck the heel of his boot loudly upon the stuccoed floor—would he could crush Count Nobili thus!—crush him and trample upon him—Nobili—the only obstacle to the high honors awaiting him! The next instant Guglielmi was reproaching himself for his want of control—the next instant he was conscious how needful it was to dissemble. Was he—Guglielmi—who had flashed his sword in a thousand battles, to be worsted by a stubborn boy? Outwitted by a capricious lover? Never!
"Excuse me, Count Nobili," he said, overmastering himself by a violent effort—"it is a bitter pang to me, your devoted friend, to be asked to become a party to an act fatal to your prospects. If you adhere to your resolution, you can never return to Lucca—never inhabit the palace your wealth has so superbly decorated. Public opinion would not permit it. You, a stranger in the city, are held to have ill-used and abandoned the niece of the Marchesa Guinigi." Nobili looked up; he was about to reply. "Pardon me, count, I neither affirm nor deny this accusation," continued Guglielmi, observing his movement; "I am giving no opinion on the merits of the case. You have now espoused the lady. If for a second time you abandon her, you will incur the increased indignation of the public. Reconsider, I implore you, this last resolve."
The lawyer's metallic voice grew positively pathetic.
"I will not reconsider it!" cried Count Nobili, indignantly. "I deny your right to advise me. You have brought me into this room for no purpose that I can comprehend. What have I in common with the advocate of my enemy? I desire to leave Corellia. You are detaining me. Here is the deed of separation "—Nobili drew from his breast-pocket the parchment he had perused so attentively in the chapel—"it only needs the lady's signature. Mine is already affixed. Let me tell you, and through you the Marchesa Guinigi, without that deed—and my own free will," he added in a lower tone, "neither you nor she would have forced me here to this marriage; I came because I considered some reparation was due to a young lady whose name has been cruelly outraged. Else I would have died first! If the lady I have made my wife desires, to make any amends to me for the insults that have been heaped upon me through her, let her set me free from an odious thralldom. I will not so much as look upon one who has permitted herself to be made the tool of others to deceive me. She has been treacherous to me in business—she has been treacherous to me in love—no, I will never look upon her again! Live with her?—by God! never!"
The pent-up wrath within him, the maddening sense of wrong, blaze out. Count Nobili is now striding up and down the room insensible to any thing for the moment but the consciousness of his own outraged feelings.
As Count Nobili waxed furious, Maestro Guglielmi grew calm. His busy brain was concocting all sorts of expedients. He leaned his chin upon his hands. His false smile gave place to a sardonic grin, as he watched Nobili—marked his well-set, muscular figure, his easy movements, the graceful curve of his head and neck, his delicate, regular features, his sunny complexion. But Nobili's face without a smile was shorn of its chief charm: that smile, so bright in itself, brought brightness to others.
"A fine, generous fellow, a proper husband for any lady in Italy, whoever she may be," was Guglielmi's reflection, as he watched him. "The young countess has taste. He is not such a fool either, but desperately provoking—like all boys with large fortunes, desperately provoking—and dogged as a mule. But for all that he is a fine, generous-hearted fellow. I like him—I like him for refusing to be forced against his will. I would not live with an angel on such terms." At this point Guglielmi's eyes exhibited a succession of fireworks; his long teeth gleamed, and he smiled a stealthy smile. "But he must be tamed, this youth—he must be tamed. Let me see, I must take him on another tack—on the flank this time, and hit him hard!"
Nobili has now ceased striding up and down the room. He stands facing the window. His ear has caught the barking of several dogs. A minute after, one rushes past the window—raised only by a few stone steps from the ground—formidable beast with long white hair, tail on end, ears erect, open-mouthed, fiery-eyed—this is Argo—Argo let loose, famished—maddened by Adamo's devices—Argo rushing at full speed and tearing up a shower of gravel with his huge paws. Barking horribly, he disappears into the shrubs. Argo's bark is taken up by the other dogs from all round the house in various keys. Juno the lurcher gives a short low yelp; the rat-terrier Tuzzi, a shrill, grating whine like a rusty saw; the bull-terrier, a deep growl. In the solemn silence of the untrodden Apennines that rise around, the loud voices of the dogs echo from cliff to cliff boom down into the abyss, and rattle there like thunder. The night-birds catch up the sound and screech; the frightened bats circle round wildly.
At this moment heavy footsteps creak upon the gravel under the shadow of the wall. A low whistle passes through the air, and the dogs disappear.
"A savage pack, like their mistress," was Count Nobili's thought as his eyes tried to pierce into the growing darkness.
Night is coming on. Heavy vapors creep up from the earth and obscure the air. Darker and denser clouds cover the heavens. Black shadows gather within the room. The bed looms out from the lighter walls like a funeral catafalque.
A few pale gleams of light still linger on the horizon. These fall upon Nobili's figure as he stands framed in the window. As the waning light strikes upon his eyes, a presentiment of danger comes over him. These dogs, these footsteps—what do they mean?
Again a wild desire seizes him to be riding full speed on the mountain-road to Lucca, to feel the fresh night air upon his heated brow; the elastic spring of his good horse under him, each stride bearing him farther from his enemies. He is about to leap out and fly, when the warning hand of the lawyer is laid upon his arm. Nobili shakes him off, but Guglielmi permits himself no indication of offense. Dejection and grief are depicted on his countenance. He shakes his head despondingly; his manner is dangerously fawning. He, too, has heard the dogs, the footsteps, and the whistle. He has drawn his own conclusions.
"I perceive, Count Nobili," he says, "you are impatient."
This was in response to a muttered curse from Nobili.
"Let me go! A thousand devils! Let me go!" cried the count, putting the lawyer back. "Impatient! I am maddened!"
"But not before we have settled the matter in question. That is impossible! Hear me, then. Count Nobili. With the deepest sorrow I accept the separation you demand on the part of the marchesa; you give me no choice. I venture no further remark," continues Guglielmi meekly, drilling his eyes to a subdued expression.
(His eyes are a continual curse to him; sometimes they will tell the truth.)
"But there is one point, my dear count, upon which we must understand each other."
In order to detain Nobili, Guglielmi is about to commit himself to a deliberate lie. Lying is not his practice; not on principle, for he has none. Expediency is his faith, pliancy his creed; lying is inartistic, also dangerous. A lie may grow into a spectre, and haunt you to your grave, perhaps beyond it.
Guglielmi felt he must do something decisive, or that exalted personage who desired to avoid all scandal not connected with himself would be irretrievably offended, and he, Guglielmi, would never sit on the judicial bench. Yet, unscrupulous as he was, the trickster shuddered at the thought of what that lie might cost him.
"It is my duty to inform you, Count Nobili"—Guglielmi is speaking with pompous earnestness—he anxiously notes the effect his words produce upon Count Nobili—"that, unless you remain under the same roof with your wife to-night, the marriage will not be completed; therefore no separation between you will be legal."
Nobili turned pale. He struck his fist violently on the table.
"What! a new difficulty? When will this torture end?"
"It will end to-morrow morning, Count Nobili. To-morrow morning I shall have the honor of waiting upon you, in company with the Mayor of Corellia, for the civil marriage. Every requisition of the law will then have been complied with."
Maestro Guglielmi bows and moves toward the door. If by this means the civil marriage can be brought about, Guglielmi will have clinched a doubtful act into a legal certainty.
"A moment, Signore Avvocato "—and Nobili is following Guglielmi to the door, consternation and amazement depicted upon his countenance, "Is this indeed so?"
Nobili's manner indicates suspicion.
"Absolutely so," answers the mendacious one. "To-morrow morning, after the civil marriage, we shall be in readiness to sign the deed of separation. Allow me in the mean time to peruse it."
He holds out his hand. If all fails, he determines to destroy that deed, and protest that he has lost it.
"Dio Santo!" ejaculates Nobili, giving the deed to him—"twenty-four hours at Corellia!"
"Not twenty-four," suggests Guglielmi, blandly, putting the deed into his pocket and taking out his watch with extraordinary rapidity, then replacing it as rapidly; "it is now seven o'clock. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning the deed of separation shall be signed, and you, Count Nobili, will be free."