CHAPTER XII
The hereditary lawyer of the Santafede family caused great inconvenience about this time by leaving a world of woe and circumlocution, to reap the reward stored up for honest men of business elsewhere. Since that section of the heavenly mansions cannot be overcrowded it is to be hoped that he met with a warm welcome. His demise, lamentable though it appeared to his employers, brought solid satisfaction to his successor, a stout young gentleman with a turn for malicious humor, whom he had himself trained and designated as the disciple on whom his mantle of faded parchments was to fall when he himself should no longer have any use for it.
Guglielmo De Sanctis swelled with pride when Ferretti, the power behind the Santafede throne, sent for him to come to the cancelleria to make out a new lease for one of the apartments. He had acquired considerable knowledge of the Santafede affairs through having for some years passed attended to those of the Princess's brother, Cardinal Cestaldini, who had warmly endorsed his recommendation for the vacant post. As the young lawyer saw in the appointment another source of income and honor for the rest of his life, his heart was gay within him as he passed under the archway into the Santafede palace to answer the maestro di casa's summons one fine morning late in July.
The Professor was better that day and Mariuccia intended to regale him with one of her "golden fries;" Giannella, running out in haste to buy whitebait and cucumbers, and counting her coppers in the corner of the red handkerchief which takes the place of the market basket in Rome, nearly bumped into the lawyer as he turned the angle of the colonnade. She pulled up with hurried excuses; he declared they should come from him; and then, recognizing the padrone's mysterious visitor of some weeks ago, she greeted him politely and asked after his respectable health. He did not reply at once, but stood looking at her with slightly knitted brow and a puzzled expression. Then, calling up a smile, he removed his hat and held it in his hand while he assured her that his health was fairly good, thank Heaven, hoped the scirocco was not too trying to that of the Signorina Brockmann; though indeed, if he might be permitted to say so in all sincerity, that was evident, since she looked so well (his eyes said: so pretty), and reminded her that he was always at her command should she require his services.
Giannella, unaccustomed to flowery speeches, was puzzled in her turn; she thanked him briefly, and passed on, unwilling to be seen conversing alone with any young man—except one. De Sanctis turned and gazed after her. "What a curious girl!" he said to himself; "she has bought no finery, she runs out marketing with a red handkerchief and a few baiocchi—I wonder what she is doing with her money? I suppose she has lived so long with Bianchi that she has caught some of his parsimonious tricks. Oh well, it is none of my business. Now for Ferretti," and he dived into the cool vaulted hall of the cancelleria.
The Professor was certainly much better. Indeed he intended to go out that afternoon to visit the Cardinal and have an exciting talk about a discovery made by his Eminence, a bit of an inscription unearthed in the Cestaldini cellars by the workmen who were repairing the drains. At this time of year these were always looked to, as heavy rains usually closed the long summer drought, and the Tiber, rising in his silt-choked bed, was apt to bubble up and make improvised fountains in unexpected places. On the discovery of the interesting fragment the Cardinal had suspended the repairs, feeling sure that the remainder of the inscription could be found, and had sent for his friend Carlo Bianchi, that light of dark learnings, to come and advise him as to further investigations.
Bianchi was keen to get on the scent, but there was one visit he proposed to pay before calling on the Cardinal. In all the dignity of clean clothes and returning health, he summoned Giannella to his study that morning and repeated his declaration of the generous intention to add to all his past kindness to her by shortly making her his wife. Seeing that he was perfectly well and otherwise in his right mind she did not laugh this time, but told him, with a quiet decision he had never yet seen her display, that she could not even pretend to consider his proposal an honor; it was degrading to himself and repulsive to her. What possible grounds for a union, she asked, could exist between them? He was old enough to be her father, rich and distinguished. She was a waif and a pauper, and ignorant in the extreme, having forgotten, as she mournfully declared, the little book learning that the nuns had taught her, and being now only fit to cook and clean and mend, services she was most willing to render him in return for his charity in allowing her to live under his roof. There she trusted she might still remain—if he would at once and forever abandon a project, the fulfillment of which would only make him ridiculous in the eyes of his friends, and to which she herself would never, never consent.
Exit Giannella, shaking with the anger of battle, so new to her calm, equable nature, and enter Mariuccia, who had frankly listened at the keyhole and heard every word. This time she would not let her feelings master her. She preserved a respectful attitude—with superhuman effort and many mental appeals to "Domine Dio" to keep His Hand on her head. After repeating all Giannella's arguments, she implored her beloved padroncino, whom she loved as a master and as a son, by all he held dearest in life, personal comfort, avoidance of expense, the respect of his many admiring friends, to put this caprice out of his clever head and restore peace to his unfortunate but ever devoted family.
Mariuccia's address was a triumph of good sense and good temper, but Bianchi was unmoved by it. A stony silence ensued when she ceased. Then Bianchi, glowering at her through those big spectacles, told her that an ignorant female could be no judge of an instructed man's motives or actions; that he thanked her for her expressions of affection, which he wished she would prove by either minding her own business or by using her influence to bring Giannella to a more reasonable frame of mind. He intended—here he glanced at a fly-blown calendar on the wall and appeared to be making a rapid mental calculation—yes, he intended to espouse Giannella in about three weeks; in any case before the end of August. Mariuccia might retire. He was going out.
Mariuccia, cold at heart, found her way back to the kitchen, sank into a chair and let her head fall forward on the table. Giannella, who had been working off her feelings by some violent sweeping in the inner room, came and knelt beside her and comforted her dumbly; both their hearts were heavy with the sense of disaster, but Giannella had something which Mariuccia had not—youth and love and hope, to strengthen her hard tried courage.
When he was left alone Bianchi locked the door and stuffed a bit of paper into the key hole. Then he took a rusty key from his vest pocket and opened the old secretary by the window. From one of the pigeon holes he drew forth a bundle of papers, laid them on the table, and read them through one by one. Had Giannella been able to look over his shoulder her eyes would have opened wide at the revelations they contained, and at the same time all surprise at the padrone's extraordinary infatuation would have died with the knowledge. But Giannella, Bianchi was resolved, never should see them, never should know that her unwillingly written signature was attached to the acknowledgment of certain respectable sums accruing to her while she should be still under the Professor's tutelage as a minor, and to be delivered into her own keeping on her twenty-first birthday. For the documents on Bianchi's table set forth that one Siegfried Brockmann, a merchant in Copenhagen, had died about a year earlier, leaving his modest fortune to the person who should prove to be his nearest relation. As he had had a brother who lived abroad, the conscientious authorities instituted a search, which resulted in the discovery that the brother had met his end in Rome, and that the person who should claim the benefit of Siegfried Brockmann's will was this brother's daughter, proved by the records of the Danish Consulate to have survived her father. Inquiries of the police (who in those days kept a strict registry of the families of all householders), and of the parish priests, revealed that the child had been taken in charge by one Mariuccia Botti, who had ever since that date been in the service of Professor Carlo Bianchi, the distinguished archæologist. As this gentleman, when referred to, claimed to be the responsible guardian of the girl, and furnished, from his hastily reconstructed memoirs, convincing proofs of her identity, the negotiations for the transfer of the money were carried on with him by Signor De Sanctis, the legal adviser of the Danish Consulate, and he was now in command of some two thousand scudi a year, to be handed over in due form to Giannella on her coming of age in the ensuing September. Since that date was so close when the business was finally wound up in July, it was agreed that the principal, together with the year's income which had accrued between the testator's death and the finding of his heir, should lie at interest in the Banco di Roma, barring the sum of one hundred scudi handed to Bianchi to pay him for Giannella's maintainance during the interval, and two hundred to be given to the girl herself to provide her with a proper wardrobe and a little pocket money.
It was for this sum that Giannella had signed a receipt. The Professor, on the first announcement of her inheritance, confided to De Sanctis that the girl was of a nervous, excitable temperament, and begged to be allowed to inform her of her good fortune himself. He would break the news quietly and gently. He added that she was shy with strangers, and, like so many young ladies, inclined to be hysterical on slight provocation. Giannella would not have recognized herself from the Professor's description. De Sanctis in his one short conversation with her, had satisfied himself that she was of sound mind; her answers to his questions as to her childhood at Castel Gandolfo, her education at the convent, her having no friends except Signor Bianchi and Mariuccia, were given with frankness and clearness. Bianchi, in a subsequent interview with the lawyer, told him that she had been much overcome by the revelation made to her, and suggested, in order to avoid any emotional scene, "so disturbing to a man of business," that he should give her the two hundred dollars himself and she should sign a receipt for it in De Sanctis' presence without any further discussion of the subject.
De Sanctis consented gladly. He had a horror of scenes, pleasant or unpleasant, and was anxious to save time and get the little business off his mind. The Professor's reputation for parsimony had rather heightened than diminished the general opinion of his probity. It seemed fortunate for the girl that she should have such an upright and careful adviser. Nevertheless the lawyer's bewilderment was great at meeting her quite a fortnight after the conclusion of the transaction in the same garb of decent poverty, the same attitude of humble domestic service in which he had first found her. But he reflected that there was no accounting for tastes—and dismissed the matter from his thoughts.
So Mariuccia's brave inventions about the Brockmann relations had materialized at last. No wonder that the Professor's attention was attracted to Giannella. Even Mariuccia would have appeared less forbidding in his eyes had she suddenly inherited money. As for Giannella, he honestly wondered that he had never noticed before that she was young and beautiful; now that he had time to think of it, he remembered with what good-natured readiness she had waited on him and worked for him; something like a real affection stirred in his heart. It began to reach out for its rights in comradeship and sympathy, and he permitted himself to look forward to the more cheerful aspects of advancing years which he had seen others enjoy but had as yet not provided for himself. If self was the central motive of his actions at this juncture, at least his feelings towards the girl were as warm and kind as his strange nature would permit; and he contemplated, as he thought, no injury to her; her interests would be carefully safeguarded in case of his dying first, and in the meantime he was doing her a benefit by preventing her from squandering her money. So quickly does self-deception do its work that in a few days after he made up his mind to marry her he had persuaded himself that he would have done so long ago had not common prudence barred the way. No man with a sense of duty would take a portionless bride, of course. But since that reproach had fallen from her, dear, pretty sweet-tempered Giannella would make an excellent wife and do him credit, since, probably on account of the regard felt for himself, she had received a decent education. She had much to thank him for, he reflected, and he was glad that in the recent manifesto of his intentions, so rudely received by her, he had not permitted her to forget her obligations to him. Her unwillingness in no way affected his calm conviction that he would carry his point in the end, but there was no time to be lost. Giannella was within a few weeks of her twenty-first birthday, and Bianchi, who, though he had no particular impatience to enter heaven, was mightily afraid of hell, knew that unless she and her money had been lawfully and irrevocably confined to his keeping before that date he must either become a common thief or hand over her fortune to her as soon as she came of age.
And then—good-bye pretty money, good-bye pretty Giannella. Mariuccia and the Curato, and the honest gossips of the neighborhood would find a pious, honest young man with a fortune more or less equal to hers; there would be a wedding, and confetti, and a drive round the Villa Borghese in a livery carriage; and the Professor would return to his defrauded home and have to watch Mariuccia court a painful death by devouring fifteen baiocchi's worth of food a day all to herself. No, these wrongs must not be. The foolish women should know nothing of defunct Scandinavian uncles until the unconscious heiress was safely ticketed as a prudent man's wife. Then how pleased they would be if he spent a few pauls of Giannella's money in taking them out of a Sunday afternoon to one of the osterias beyond the gates where wine and maccheroni were so good and cheap!
But he told himself again that there was no time to lose if all his pleasant dreams were to be realized. He had not counted on the girl's resistance; it had caused him a painful surprise to find that any young woman should be so devoid of proper feeling, should show such a complete lack of gratitude for past benefits and those which he now proposed to confer. Of course Mariuccia had much to do with it. Opposition from her he had expected; it was not to be supposed that she would relish the idea of having to look upon Giannella as her mistress. The "stultus vulgus" was always so jealous and suspicious. And unfortunately Mariuccia's was a strong character in a vulgar way. The kind-hearted Professor acknowledged to himself that it would cost him many struggles to break down the combined resistance of two obstinate women, and that discomfort would be added to conflict in the process, since the ordering of his daily life was in their hands. He must find an ally of their own sex, one sufficiently imposing to awe them into good behavior. Who so fitted to speak with authority as the Princess, to whom Giannella owed so much gratitude and respect? He would lay the facts—with a few insignificant reservations—before the great lady and beg her to intervene for the good of the orphan in whom she had taken such benevolent interest a few years ago.
Rather resenting the necessity of wasting time over these details when that thrilling discovery of the Cardinal's awaited his inspection, he presented himself at the Princess's door and sent in his card with the respectful request that her Excellency would grant him a short interview on a matter of great importance. He spent some trying moments in the visitor's waiting-room, in uncertainty as to the result of his application, and was greatly relieved when informed that the Princess would have the pleasure of seeing him.
Teresa Santafede was a good deal harassed at this time by domestic matters; she missed her faithful Elena Dati more every day; Onorato was distressing her deeply by still evading the charms and chains of matrimony; her health seemed breaking down, she began to feel old and to lose confidence in herself. A mistake had been made somewhere; life had proved unruly and would not fit into the frame she had made for it. Still she was alert to the call of duty, and never sent away any person who had a right to see her. This wearisome Professor evidently wanted something. She hoped it could be quickly and reasonably granted him—ask him to walk in.
All her sense of duty could not disarm her manner of a certain stiffness, the outcome of the nobles' deep-seated hereditary antagonism to the middle class, the class which once furnished hundreds of clients to every great patrician and is now independent of patronage yet still mean, obscure, envious yet critical, nameless but ubiquitous, carrying on its colorless existence entirely apart from their illuminated sphere. A chasm of separation from her visitor was disclosed in the Princess's slight, formal bow, and as Bianchi gingerly sat down on the edge of a chair opposite her sofa, and dropped his hat and gloves on the floor, his heart sank a little, not from any sense of inferiority—the Romans are not snobs—but simply because the atmosphere was not one of success. He was, however, conscious of the justice of his cause, and after an opening speech, in which he reminded his hearer of her former benevolence to a certain orphan girl, unfolded his case with a good deal of tact and plausibility. As he went on, the Princess became first interested, then sympathetic. The undoubted benefit of such a marriage for a friendless young woman was evident. Suppose, said Bianchi, that he or his old servant were to die? In what an impossible position would Giannella find herself! Could she remain in his home without a respectable female's companionship? Could she, in case of his own demise (here the Princess made a polite gesture of deprecation), be cast on the world, young and attractive as she was, with only an aged peasant to protect her from its snares and temptations? The Excellency must surely see that Giannella's only safety lay in a respectable marriage, and the speaker's good heart, yearning over the girl's future, had prompted him to throw himself into the breach.
The moment the word "temptation" sounded in her ears the Princess's conscience hurled itself to the rescue of a soul in danger, just as the nearest surgeon hastens to give first aid to the victim of a street accident. Likes or dislikes, youthful romance or aged prejudice, all must be swept aside to preserve the innocent and convert the sinful. Safety awaited Giannella (whose existence had for some time escaped the Princess's overburdened memory) as the wife of the good, disinterested man who seemed to have put his own feelings out of the question and to be pleading her cause alone with fine singleness of heart.
"I see. Yes, I agree with you," the hostess said, bowing slightly to show that the interview was ended. "Send the girl to me, and let the servant accompany her. I will speak to Giannella alone, and will then have a few words with the old woman, who can only be acting from jealous and unworthy motives in thus opposing a marriage which, in spite of a trifling difference of age, offers such advantages to that unfortunate orphan. I am not at all surprised at the servant's conduct. The common people are always ignorant and stubborn, but they can see reason when it is explained to them. I have generally found our contadini tractable. Excuse me for mentioning such a thing—but I suppose there is no secret attachment, no foolish love affair which is causing Giannella to behave so strangely? That is quite impossible, is it not?"
"Quite impossible, Excellency," the Professor declared. "We have brought her up most strictly, have never let her out of our sight. I can assure you that she has never spoken to a young man in her life!"
Had the Princess become more human with the passing years? A gleam of amused pity touched her eyes and mouth; but she replied gravely: "That is as it should be. I shall expect her to-morrow then at ten o'clock. I am leaving for Santafede at twelve and shall not return to Rome till October. It was fortunate, Signor Professore, that you came to-day." Bianchi bowed himself out with effusive thanks. As he went on his way to keep his interesting appointment with the Cardinal, his appearance was one of such elation that a student who belonged to his class at the university laughingly pointed him out to his two companions, Rinaldo Goffi and Peppino Sacchetti. "There goes old 'brontolone' (grumbler) Bianchi, boys," he said, "just look at him. I never saw him so happy before. He might have won a terno in the lottery! But I am sure it is nothing more than a copper picked up in the street—or another mouldy old statue discovered in a cabbage patch. What things some men do stick for stars in their sky!"
"Is that Professor Bianchi?" asked Rinaldo, looking after the receding figure with sudden interest. "Capperi! He is no beauty!"
"Who is, at that age?" laughed Peppino, and he began to hum, "La gioventu é un fiore, che presto se ne vá."
But Rinaldo did not laugh. A chance phrase of the sacristan of San Severino came back to his mind. "Now that she is big and pretty, they say he means to marry her." He had hardly thought of it again. Giannella's eyes, Giannella's smile, had told him that he had no rivals; but the insolence of the Professor's pretensions suddenly kindled him to a fury of resentment. That sallow, hook-nosed, round-shouldered old fellow would dare to approach her, was trying to wrap the cobwebs of his ugly age round her sweet freshness? For the first time in his life Rinaldo felt a passionate hatred fasten on his heart and pump the lust of murder through his veins. He was standing rooted to the spot, gazing at the entrance to Palazzo Cestaldini, through which the Professor had disappeared.
"Come on, Nalduccio," said Peppino, shaking him by the arm, "what on earth is the matter? You look as if you had seen the Lupo Manaro."
"I wish it would catch him," growled Rinaldo, turning to his friends with such an expression that they drew back from him in horror. "May he and all his best dead be the werewolf's food forever. No, I shall not come to the river. The sight of that antipatico Professor of yours has upset me. It will be more prudent to go home and take a dose of medicine than to go for a cold swim after such an emotion."
"Is it as bad as that?" inquired Peppino with affectionate concern. "Poveraccio, perhaps he has the evil eye?" and he fingered the coral horn on his watch chain as he pronounced the fatal word. "If so, why, I think I will come with you. This meeting might bring us bad luck on the river. It is a Friday, too. Yes, I will go back with you, Rinaldo."
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed the third member of the party, the irreverent student who had drawn attention to Bianchi; "I and thirty others have been attending his lectures for the last year, and nothing has happened to us. He is as ugly as hungry, and as tiresome as the Latin in a sermon, but as for the other thing, I never heard that he was accused of it. What a couple of superstitious young donkeys you are!"
"That is all very well," retorted Peppino, "but when the mere sight of a man makes such an impression as that—are you feeling worse, Nalduccio?" he inquired hastily, seeing the artist's face screwing itself up into a frightful grimace—"it is folly, even impiety, to disregard it. Come along, Rinaldo, we will stop at the apothecary's and get him to prescribe for you, and I will come and sit with you till you feel better."