CHAPTER VII.
THE CLUB AT LUCCA.
The piazza at Lucca is surrounded by four avenues of plane-trees. In the centre stands the colossal statue of a Bourbon with disheveled hair, a cornucopia at her feet. Facing the west is the ducal palace, a spacious modern building, in which the sovereigns of Lucca kept a splendid court. Here Cesare Trenta had flourished. Opposite the palace is the Hotel of the Universo, where, as we know, Count Marescotti lodged at No. 4, on the second story. Midway in the piazza a deep and narrow street dives into the body of the city—a street of many colors, with houses red, gray, brown, and tawny, mellowed and tempered by the hand of Time into rich tints that melt into warm shadows. In the background rise domes, and towers, and mediaeval church-fronts, galleried and fretted with arches, pillars, and statues. Here a golden mosaic blazes in the sun, yonder a brazen San Michele with outstretched arms rises against the sky; and, scattered up and down, many a grand old palace-roof uprears its venerable front, with open pillared belvedere, adorned with ancient frescoes. A dull, sleepy old city, Lucca, but full of beauty!
On the opposite side of the piazza, behind the plane-trees, stand two separate buildings, of no particular pretension, other than that both are of marble. One is the theatre, the other is the club. About the club there is some attempt at ornamentation. A wide portico, raised on broad steps, runs along the entire front, supported by Corinthian columns. Under this portico there are orange-trees in green stands, rows of chairs, and tables laid with white table-cloths, plates, and napkins, ready for an al-fresco meal.
It is five o'clock in the afternoon of a splendid day early in October—the next day, in fact, after the contract was signed at Corellia. The hour for the drive upon the ramparts at Lucca is not till six. This, therefore, is the favorite moment for a lounge at the club. The portico is dotted with black coats and hats. Baldassare lay asleep between two chairs. He had arranged himself so as not to crease a pair of new trousers—all'Inglese—not that any Englishman would have worn such garments—they were too conspicuous; but his tailor tells him they are English, and Baldassare willingly believes him.
Baldassare is not a member, but he was admitted to the club by the influence of his patron, the old chamberlain; not without protest, however, with the paternal shop close by. Being there, Baldassare stands his ground in a sullen, silent way. He has much jewelry about him, and wears many showy rings. Trenta says publicly that these rings are false; but Trenta is not at the club to-day.
Lolling back in a chair near Baldassare, with his short legs crossed, and his thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of his coat, is Count Orsetti, smiling, fat, and innocuous. His mother has not yet decided when he is to speak the irrevocable words to Teresa Ottolini. Orsetti is far too dutiful a son to do so before she gives him permission. His mother might change her mind at the last moment; then Orsetti would change his mind, too, and burn incense on other altars. Orsetti has a meerschaum between his teeth, from which he is puffing out columns of smoke. With his head thrown back, he is watching it as it curls upward into the vaulted portico. The languid young man, Orazio Franchi, supported by a stick, is at this moment ascending the steps. To see him drag one leg after the other, one would think his days were numbered. Not at all. Franchi is strong and healthy, but he cultivates languor as an accomplishment. Everybody at Lucca is idle, but nobody is languid, so Franchi has thought fit to adopt that line of distinction. His thin, lanky arms, stooping figure, and a head set on a long neck that droops upon his chest, as well as a certain indolent grace, suit the rôle. When Franchi had mounted the steps he stood still, heaved an audible sigh of infinite relief, then he sank into a chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Count Malatesta, who was near, leaning against the wall behind, took his cigar from his mouth and laughed.
"Sù!—Via!—A little courage to bear the burden of a weary life. What has tired you, Orazio?"
"I have walked from the gate here," answered Orazio, without unclosing his eyes.
"Go on, go on," is Malatesta's reply, "nothing like perseverance. You will lose the use of your limbs in time. It is this cursed air. Per Bacco! it will infect me. Why, oh! why, my penates, was I born at Lucca? It is the dullest place. No one ever draws a knife, or fights a duel, or runs away with his neighbor's wife. Why don't they? It would be excitement. Cospetto! we marry, and are given in marriage, and breed like pigeons in our own holes.—Come, Franchi, have you no news? Wake up, man! You are full of wickedness, spite of your laziness."
Franchi opened his eyes, stretched himself, then yawned, and leaned his head upon his arm that rested on one of the small tables near.
"News?—oh!—ah! There is plenty of news, but I am too tired to tell it."
"News! and I not know it!" cried Count Malatesta.
Several others spoke, then all gathered round Franchi. Count Malatesta slapped Franchi on the back.
"Come, my Trojan, speak. I insist upon it," said Orsetti, rising.
Franchi looked up at him. There was a French cook at Palazzo Orsetti. No one had such Chateau Lafitte. Orazio is far from insensible to these blessings.
"Well, listen. Old Sansovino has returned to his villa at Riparata.
His wife is with him."
"His wife?" shouted Orsetti. "Chè, chè! Any woman but his wife, and I'll believe you. Why, she has lived for the last fifteen years with Duke Bartolo at Venice. Sansovino did not mind the duke, but he charged her with forgery. You remember? About her dower. There was a lawsuit, I think. No, no—not his wife."
"Yes, his wife," answered Franchi, crossing his arms with great deliberation. "The Countess Sansovino was received by her attached husband with bouquets, and a band of music. She drove up to the front-door in gala—in a four-in-hand, à la Daumont. All the tenantry were in waiting—her children too (each by a different father)—to receive her. It was most touching. Old Sansovino did it very well, they tell me. He clasped her to his heart, and melted into tears like a père noble"
"O Bello!" exclaimed Orsetti, "if old Sansovino cried, it must have been with shame. After this, I will believe any thing."
"The Countess Sansovino is very rich," a voice remarked from the background.
"Well, if she forges, I suppose so," another answered.
"O Marriage! large are the folds of thy ample mantle!" cried Count Malatesta. "Who shall say we are not free in Italy? Now, why do they not do this kind of thing in Lucca? Will any one tell me?—I want to know."
There was a general laugh. "Well, they may possibly do worse," said
Franchi, languidly.
"What do you mean?" asked Malatesta, sharply. "Is there more scandal?"
Franchi nodded. A crowd collected round him.
"How the devil, Franchi, do you know so much? Out with it! You must tell us."
"Give me time!—give me time!" was Franchi's answer. He raised his head, and eyed them all with a look of feigned surprise. "Is it possible no one has heard it?"
He was answered by a general protest that nothing had been heard.
"Nobody knows what has happened at the Universo?" Franchi asked with unusual energy.
"No, no!" burst forth from Malatesta and Orsetti. "No, no!" sounded from behind.
"That is quite possible," continued Orazio, with a cynical smile. "To tell you the truth, I did not think you had heard it. It only happened half an hour ago."
"What happened?" asked Count Orsetti.
"A secret commission has been sent from Rome." There was a breathless silence. "The government is alarmed. A secret commission to examine Count Marescotti's papers, and to imprison him."
"That's his uncle's doing—the Jesuit!" cried Malatesta. "This is the second time. Marescotti will be shut up for life."
"Did they catch him?" asked Orsetti.
"No; he got out of an upper window, and escaped across the roof. He had taken all the upper floor of the Universo for his accomplices, who were expected from Paris."
"Honor to Lucca!" Malatesta put in. "We are progressing."
"He's gone," continued Orazio, falling back exhausted on his chair, "but his papers—" Here Franchi thought it right to pause and faintly wink. "I'll tell you the rest when I have smoked a cigar. Give me a light."
"No, no, you must smoke afterward," said Orsetti, rapping him smartly on the back. "Go on—what about Marescotti's papers?"
"Compromising—very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti's arm.
"The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta.
"Mon cher! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet—a damaging practice. These sonnets are a diary of his life. The police were much diverted, I assure you, and so was I. I was in the hotel; I gave them the key to all the ladies."
"You might have done better than waste your fine energies in making ladies names public town-talk," said Orsetti, frowning.
"Well, that's a matter of opinion," replied Orazio, with a certain calm insolence peculiar to him. "I have no ladylove in Lucca."
"Delicious!" broke in Malatesta, brightening up all over. "Don't quarrel over a choice bone.—Who is compromised the most? I'll have her name placarded. Some one must make a row."
"Enrica Guinigi is the most compromised," answered Orazio, striking a match to light his cigar. "Marescotti celebrates her as the young Madonna before the archangel Gabriel visited her. Ha! ha!"
Malatesta gave a low whistle.
"Enrica Guinigi! Is not that the marchesa's niece?" asked Orsetti; "a pretty, fair-faced girl I see driving with her aunt on the ramparts sometimes?"
"The same," answered Malatesta. "But what, in the name of all the devils, could Marescotti know of her? No one has ever spoken to her."
Baldassare now leaned forward and listened; the name of Enrica woke
him from his sleep. He hardly dared to join the circle formed round
Franchi, for Franchi always snubbed him, and called him "Young
Galipots," when Trenta was absent.
"Perhaps Marescotti was the archangel Gabriel himself," said
Malatesta, with a leer.
"But answer my question," insisted Orsetti, who, as an avowed suitor of Lucca maidens had their honor and good name at heart. "Don't be a fool, but tell me what you know. This idle story, involving the reputation of a young girl, is shameful. I protest against it!"
"Do you?" sneered Orazio, leaning back, and pulling at his sandy mustache. "That is because you know nothing about it. This Sainte Vierge has already been much talked about—first, with Nobili, who lives opposite—when ma tante was sleeping. Then she spent a day with several men upon the Guinigi Tower, an elegant retirement among the crows. After that old Trenta offered her formally in marriage to Marescotti."
"What!—After the Guinigi Tower?" put in Malatesta. "Of course
Marescotti refused her?"
"'Refused her, of course, with thanks.' So says the sonnet." Orazio went on to say all this in a calm, tranquil way, casting the bread of scandal on social waters as he puffed at his cigar. "It is very prettily rhymed—the sonnet—I have read it. The young Madonna is warmly painted. Now, why did Marescotti refuse to marry her? That is what I want to know." And Franchi looked round upon his audience with a glance of gratified malice.
"Even in Lucca!—even in Lucca!" Malatesta clapped his hands and chuckled until he almost choked. "Laus Veneri!—the mighty goddess!—She has reared an altar even here in this benighted city. I was a skeptic, but a Paphian miracle has converted me. I must drink a punch in honor of the great goddess."
Here Baldassare rose and leaned over from behind.
"I went up the Guinigi Tower with the party," he ventured to say. "There were four of us. The Cavaliere Trenta told me in the street just before that it was all right, and that the lady had agreed to marry Count Marescotti. There can be no secret about it now that every one knows it. Count Marescotti raved so about the Signorina Enrica, that he nearly jumped over the parapet."
"Better for her if you had helped him over," muttered Orazio, with a sarcastic stare. "The sonnet would not then have been written."
But Baldassare, conscious that he had intelligence that would make him welcome, stood his ground. "You do not seem to know what has happened," he continued.
"More news!" cried Malatesta. "Gracious heavens! Wave after wave it comes!—a mighty sea. I hear the distant roar—it dashes high!—It breaks!—Speak, oh, speak, Adonis!"
"The Marchesa Guinigi has left Lucca suddenly."
"Who cares? Do you, Pietrino?" asked Franchi of Orsetti, with a contemptuous glance at Baldassare.
"Let him speak," cried Malatesta; "Baldassare is an oracle."
"The marchesa left Lucca suddenly," persisted Baldassare, not daring to notice Orsetti's insolence. "She took her niece with her."
"Have it cried about the streets," interrupted Orazio, opening his eyes.
"Yesterday morning an express came down for Cavaliere Trenta. The ancient tower of Corellia has been entirely burnt. The marchesa was rescued."
"And the niece—is the niece gone to glory on the funeral-pyre?"
"No," answered Baldassare, helplessly, settling his stupid eyes on
Orazio, whose thrusts he could not parry. "She was saved by Count
Nobili, who was accidentally shooting on the mountains near."
"Oh, bah!" cried Malatesta, with a knowing grin; "I never believe in accidents. There is a ruling power. That power is love—love—love."
"The cavaliere is not yet returned."
"This is a strange story," said Orsetti, gravely. "Nobili too, and Marescotti. She must be a lively damsel. What will Nera Boccarini say to her truant knight, who rescues maidens accidentally on distant mountains? What had Nobili to do in the Garfagnana?"
"Ask him," lisped Orazio; "it will save more talking. I wish Nobili joy of his bargain," he added, turning to Malatesta.
"I wonder that he cares to take up with Marescotti's leavings."
"Here's Ruspoli, crossing the square. Perhaps he can throw some light on this strange story," said Orsetti.
Prince Ruspoli, still at Lucca, is on a visit to some relatives. He is, as I have said, decidedly horsey, and is much looked up to by the "golden youths," his companions, in consequence. As a gentleman rider at races and steeple-chases, as a hunter on the Roman Campagna, and the driver of a "stage" on the Corso, Ruspoli is unrivaled. He breeds racers, and he has an English stud-groom, who has taught him to speak English with a drawl, enlivened by stable-slang. He is slim, fair, and singularly awkward, and of a uniform pale yellow—yellow complexion, yellow hair, and yellow eyebrows. Poole's clothes never fit him, and he walks, as he dances, with his legs far apart, as if a horse were under him. He carries a hunting-whip in his hand spite of the month—October (these little anomalies are undetected in New Italy, where there is so much to learn). Prince Ruspoli swings round this whip as he mounts the steps of the club. The others, who are watching his approach, are secretly devoured with envy.
"Wall, Pietrino—wall, Beppo," said Ruspoli, shaking hands with Orsetti and Malatesta, and nodding to Orazio, out of whose sails he took the wind by force of stolid indifference (Baldassare he ignored, or mistook him for a waiter, if he saw him at all), "you are all discussing the news, of course. Lucca's lively to-day. You'll all do in time, even to steeple-chases. We must run one down on the low grounds in the spring. Dick, my English groom, is always plaguing me about it."
Then Prince Ruspoli pulled himself together with a jerk, as a man does stiff from the saddle, laid his hunting-whip upon a table, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and looked round.
"What news have you heard?" asked Beppo Malatesta. "There's such a lot."
"Wall, the news I have heard is, that Count Nobili is engaged to marry the Marchesa Guinigi's little niece. Dear little thing, they say—like an English 'mees'—fair, with red hair."
"Is that your style of beauty?" lisped Orazio, looking hard at him.
But Ruspoli did not notice him.
"But that's not half," cried Malatesta. "You are an innocent, Ruspoli.
Let me baptize you with scandal."
"Don't, don't, I hate scandal," said Ruspoli, taking one of his hands out of his pocket for a moment, and holding it up in remonstrance. "There is nothing but scandal in these small Italian towns. Take to hunting, that's the cure. Nobili is to marry the little girl, that's certain. He's to pay off all the marchesa's debts, that's certain too. He's rich, she's poor. He wants blood, she has got it."
"I do not believe in this marriage," said Orazio, measuring Prince Ruspoli as he stood erect, his slits of eyes without a shadow of expression. "You remember the ballroom, prince? And the Boccarini family grouped—and Nobili crying in a corner? Nobili will marry the Boccarini. She is a stunner."
After Orazio had ventured this observation about Nera Boccarini, Prince Ruspoli brought his small, steely eyes to bear upon him with a fixed stare.
Orazio affected total unconsciousness, but he quailed inwardly. The others silently watched Ruspoli. He took up his hunting-whip and whirled it in the air dangerously near Orazio's head, eying him all the while as a dog eyes a rat he means to crunch between his teeth.
"Whoever says that Count Nobili will marry the Boccarini, is a liar!"
Prince Ruspoli spoke with perfect composure, still whirling his whip.
"I shall be happy to explain my reason anywhere, out of the city, on
the shortest notice."
Orazio started up. "Prince Ruspoli, do you call me a liar?"
"I beg your pardon," replied Ruspoli, quite unmoved, making Orazio a mock bow. "Did you say whom Count Nobili would marry? If you did, will you favor me by repeating it?"
"I only report town-talk," Franchi answered, sullenly. "I am not answerable for town-talk."
Ruspoli was a dead-shot; Orazio only fought with swords.
"Then I am satisfied," replied Ruspoli, quiet defiance in his look and tone. "I accuse you, Signore Orazio Franchi, of nothing. I only warn you."
"I don't see why we should quarrel about Nobili's marriage. He will be here himself presently, to explain which of the ladies he prefers," observed the peaceable Orsetti.
"I don't know which lady Count Nobili prefers," retorted Ruspoli, doggedly. "But I tell you the name of the lady he is to marry. It is Enrica Guinigi."
"Why, there is Count Nobili!" cried Baldassare, quite loud—"there, under the plane-trees."
"Bravo, Adonis!" cried Beppo; "your eyes are as sharp as your feet are swift."
Nobili crossed the square; he was coming toward the club. Every face was turned toward him. He had come down to Lucca like one maddened by the breath of love. All along the road he had felt drunk with happiness. To him love was everywhere—in the deep gloom of the mountain-forests, in the flowing river, diamonded with light under the pale moonbeams; in the splendor of the starry sky, in midnight dreams of bliss, and in the awakening of glorious morning. The two old palaces were full of love—the Moorish garden; the magnolias that overtopped the wall, and the soft, creamy perfume that wafted from them; the very street through which he should lead her home; every one he saw; all he said, thought, or did—it was all love and Enrica!
Now, having with lover's haste made good progress with all he had to do, Nobili has come down to the club to meet his friends, and to receive their congratulations. Every hand is stretched out toward him. Even Ruspoli, spite of obvious jealousy, liked him. Nobili's face is lit up with its sunniest smile. Having shaken hands with him, an ominous silence ensues. Orsetti and Malatesta suddenly find that their cigars want relighting, and turn aside. Orazio seats himself at a distance, and scowls at Prince Ruspoli. Nobili gives a quick glance round. An instant tells him that something is wrong.
Prince Ruspoli breaks the awkward silence. He walks up, looks at
Nobili with immovable gravity, then slaps him on the shoulder.
"I congratulate you, Nobili. I hear you are to marry the Marchesa
Guinigi's niece."
"Balduccio, I thank you. Within a week I hope to bring her home to Lucca. There will then be but one Guinigi home in the two palaces. The marchesa makes her heiress of all she possesses."
Prince Ruspoli is satisfied. Now he will back Count Nobili to any odds. He will name his next foal Mario Nobili.
Again Nobili glances round; this time there is the shadow of a frown upon his smooth brow. Orsetti feels that he must speak.
"Have you known the lady long?" Orsetti asks, with an embarrassment foreign to him.
"Yes, and no," answers Nobili, reddening, and scanning the veiled expression on Orsetti's face with intense curiosity. "But the matter has been brought to a crisis by the accidental burning of the marchesa's house at Corellia. I was present—I saved her niece."
"I thought it was rather sudden," says Orazio, from behind, in a tone full of suggestion. "We were in doubt, before you came, to whom the lady was engaged."
Nobili starts.
"What do you mean?" he asks, hastily.
The color has left his cheeks; his blue eyes grow dark.
"There has been some foolish gossip from persons who know nothing," Orsetti answers, advancing to the front. "About some engagement with another gentleman, whom she had accepted—"
"Nonsense! Don't listen to him, my good fellow," breaks in Ruspoli. "These lads have nothing to do but to breed scandal. They would slander the Virgin; not for wickedness, but for idleness. I mean to make them hunt. Hunting is the cure."
Nobili stands as if turned to stone.
"But I must listen," replies Nobili, fiercely, fire flaming in his eyes. "This lady's honor is my own. Who has dared to couple her name with any other man? Orsetti—Ruspoli"—and he turns to them in great excitement—"you are my friends. What does this mean?"
"Nothing," said Orsetti, trying to smile, but not succeeding. "I hear, Nobili, you have behaved with extraordinary generosity," he adds, fencing the question.
"Yes, by Jove!" adds Prince Ruspoli. Ruspoli was leaning up against a pillar, watching Orazio as he would a mischievous cur. "A most suitable marriage. Not that I care a button for blood, except in horses."
Nobili has not moved, but, as each speaks, his eye shifts rapidly from one to the other. His face from pale grows livid, and there is a throb about his temples that sounds in his ears like a thousand hammers.
"Orsetti," Nobili says, sternly, "I address myself to you. You are the oldest here. You are the first man I knew after I came to Lucca. You are all concealing something from me. I entreat you, Orsetti, as man to man, tell me whose name has been coupled with that of my affianced wife? That it is a lie I know beforehand—a base and palpable lie! She has been reared at home in perfect solitude."
Nobili spoke with passionate vehemence. The hot blood rushed over his face and neck, and tingled to his very fingers. Now he glances from man to man in an appeal defiant, yet pleading, pitiful to behold. Every face grows grave.
Orsetti is the first to reply.
"I feel deeply for you, Nobili. We all love you."
"Yes, all," responded Malatesta and Ruspoli, speaking together.
"You must not attach too much importance to idle gossip," says
Orsetti.
"No, no," cried Ruspoli, "don't. I will stand by you, Nobili. I know the lady by sight—a little English beau"
"Scandal! Who is the man? By God, I'll have his blood within this very hour!"
Nobili is now wrought up beyond all endurance.
"You can't," says Orazio Franchi, tapping his heel upon the marble pavement. "He's gone."
"Gone! I'll follow him to hell!" roars Nobili "Who is he?"
"Possibly he may find his own way there in time," answers Orazio, with a sneer. He rises so as to increase the distance between himself and Prince Ruspoli. "But as yet the wretch crawls on mother earth."
"Silence, Orazio!" shouts Ruspoli, "or you may go there yourself quicker than Marescotti."
"Marescotti! Is that the name?" cries Nobili, with a hungry eye, that seems to thirst for vengeance. "Who is Marescotti?"
"This is some horrid fiction," Nobili mutters to himself. Stay!—Where had he heard that name lately? He gnawed his fingers until the blood came, and a crimson drop fell upon the marble floor. Suddenly an icy chill rose at his heart. He could not breathe. He sank into a chair—then rose again, and stood before Orsetti with a face out of which ten years of youth had fled. Yes, Marescotti—that is the very man Enrica had mentioned to him under the trees at Corellia. Each letter of it blazes in fire before his eyes. Yes—she had said Marescotti had read her eyes. "O God!" and Nobili groans aloud, and buries his face within his hands.
"You take this too much to heart, my dear Mario," Count Orsetti said; "indeed you do, else I would not say so. Remember there is nothing proved. Be careful," Orsetti whispered in the other's ear, glancing round. Every eye was riveted on Nobili.
Orsetti felt that Nobili had forgotten the public place and the others present—such as Count Malatesta, Orazio Franchi, and Baldassare, who, though they had not spoken, had devoured every word.
"It is nothing but a sonnet found among Marescotti's papers." Orsetti now was speaking. "Marescotti has fled from the police. Nothing but a sonnet addressed to the lady—a poet's day-dream—untrue of course."
"Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?" demanded Nobili. He had mastered himself for the moment.
"Stuff, stuff!" cried Ruspoli. "Every pretty woman has heaps of sonnets and admirers. It is a brevet of beauty. After all this row, it was only an offer of marriage made to Count Marescotti and refused by him. Probably the lady never knew it."
"Oh, yes, she did, she accepted him," sounded from behind. It was Baldassare, whose vanity was piqued because no one had referred to him for information.
"Accepted! Refused by Count Marescotti!" Nobili caught and repeated the words in a voice so strange, it sounded like the echo from a vault.
"Wall! by Jove! It's five o'clock!" exclaimed Prince Ruspoli, looking at his watch. "My dear fellow," he said, addressing Nobili, "I have an appointment on the ramparts; will you go with me?" He passed his arm through that of Nobili. It was a painful scene, which Ruspoli desired to end. Nobili shook his head. He was so stunned and dazed he could not speak.
"If it is five o'clock," said Malatesta, "I must go too."
Malatesta drew Nobili a little apart. "Don't think too much of this, Nobili. It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month. Take your wife a trip to Paris or London. We shall hear no more of it, believe me. Good-by."
"Count Nobili," called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico, making a languid bow, "after all that I have heard, I congratulate you on your marriage most sincerely."
Nobili did not hear him. All were gone. He was alone with Ruspoli. His head had dropped upon his breast. There was the shadow of a tear in Prince Ruspoli's steely eye. It was not enough to be brushed off, for it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.
"Wall, Mario," he said, apparently unmoved, "it seems to me the club is made too hot to hold you. Come home."
Nobili nodded. He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince Ruspoli's arm as they crossed the piazza. Prince Ruspoli did not leave him until he saw him safe to his own door.
"You will judge what is right to do," were Ruspoli's last words. "But do not be guided by those young scamps. They live in mischief. If you love the girl, marry her—that is my advice."