As we returned to the villa at Cafaggiolo, by dint of allowing my travelling companion to give a free rein to her heroic declamations, her digressions and her boasting, I succeeded, not without difficulty, in finding out that honest Nasi had been fascinated at a ball by a lovely young person, and had asked her hand in marriage; that he had gone to Checchina to inform her of his determination; that, as she had adopted the expedient of fainting and going into convulsions, he had been so dismayed by the violence of her despair, that he had begged her to consent to a middle course and to remain his mistress in spite of his marriage. Thereupon Checchina, seeing that he was weakening, had haughtily refused to share her lover's heart and purse. She had ordered post-horses, and had signed, or pretended to sign, an engagement with the Opera at Paris. The easy-going Nasi had been unable to endure the thought of giving up a woman whom he was not sure that he had ceased to adore, for a woman whom he was not sure that he had begun to adore. He had begged the singer's forgiveness; he had retracted his offer of marriage, and had ceased his attentions to the illustrious beauty, whose name Checchina did not know. Checchina had allowed herself to be prevailed upon; but she had learned indirectly, on the day following this great sacrifice, that Nasi was entitled to no great credit therefor, inasmuch as, between the scene of frenzied despair and the reconciliation, his offer of marriage had been rejected, and he had been cast aside in favor of a happy rival. Checchina, wounded to the quick, had left Naples, leaving a withering letter for the count, in which she declared that she would never see him again; and, taking the road to France—for all roads lead to Paris as well as to Rome—she hastened to Cafaggiolo to wait until her lover should come in pursuit of her, and place his body across her path to prevent her from proceeding farther with a vengeance of which she was beginning to be a little weary.
All this was not mere vulgar and avaricious scheming on Checchina's part. She loved opulence, it is true, and could not do without it; but she had such implicit faith in her destiny, and was naturally so audacious, that she constantly risked the good fortune of one day for that of the morrow. She passed the Rubicon every morning, confident of finding on the other bank a more flourishing realm than the one she left behind. Thus there was nothing base and low-minded in this feminine trickery, because there was in it no element of fear. She did not play at grief; she made neither false promises nor hypocritical prayers. In her moments of vexation she had genuine paroxysms of nervous excitement. Why were her lovers so credulous as to mistake the vehemence of her anger for the result of profound grief resisted by pride? Is it not our own fault when we are duped by our own vanity?
Moreover, even if Checchina did play a bit at tragedy in her boudoir, in order to preserve her empire, she had an ample excuse in the absolute sincerity of her conduct. I have never known a woman more fearlessly frank, more faithful to lovers who were faithful to her, more reckless in her admissions when she revenged herself in kind, more incapable of recovering her power by means of a falsehood. To be sure her love was not strong enough for that, and no man seemed to her to be worth the trouble of putting constraint upon herself and of humiliating herself in her own eyes by prolonged dissembling. I have often thought that women are very foolish to demand so much frankness when we are so far from appreciating the merit of fidelity, I have often learned by my own experience that one must have more passion to carry out a falsehood, than courage to tell the truth. It is so easy to be sincere with persons one does not love! It is so pleasant to be sincere with those whom one has ceased to love!
This simple reflection will explain why it was impossible for me to love Checchina for long, and also why it was impossible for me not to esteem her always, despite her insolent outbreaks and her immeasurable ambition. I soon found out that she was a detestable mistress and an excellent friend; and then, too, there was a sort of poetic charm in that adventuress-like energy, in that disregard for wealth inspired by the very love of wealth, in that incredible conceit, always crowned by even more incredible success. She was forever comparing herself favorably to Napoleon's sisters, and making herself out the equal of Napoleon himself. That was amusing and not too ridiculous. In her own sphere she was as bold and as fortunate as the great conqueror. She never had for lovers any but young, handsome, rich and honorable men; and I do not believe that a single one of them ever complained of her after leaving or losing her; for in reality she had a great and noble heart. She could always atone for a thousand foolish and mischievous exploits by one decisive display of strength of character and kindness of heart. In a word, she was brave, both morally and physically, and people of that temperament are always good for something, wherever they may be and whatever they may do.
"My poor child," I said to her as we drove along, "you will be nicely caught if Nasi takes you at your word and lets you start for France."
"There's no danger of that," she said with a smile, forgetting that she had just told me that she would not for anything in the world allow herself to be softened by his submission.
"But suppose that does happen, what will you do? You have nothing in the world, and you are not in the habit of keeping the gifts of your lovers when you part. That is what makes me esteem you a little bit, despite all your faults. Come, tell me, what is going to become of you?"
"I shall be very sorry," she replied; "yes, really, Lelio, I shall regret it; for Nasi is an excellent fellow, he has a big heart. I will bet that I shall weep for—I don't know how long! But after all, one either has a destiny or one hasn't. If it is God's will that I go to France, it would seem to be because I am likely to have no more luck in Italy. If I am parted from that dear, affectionate lover of mine, I have no doubt that it is because a more devoted and more courageous man is waiting yonder for me, to marry me, and prove to the world that love is superior to all prejudices. Mark my words, Lelio, I shall be a princess, perhaps a queen. An old fortune-teller of Malamocco predicted it in my horoscope when I was only four years old, and I have always believed it: a proof that it must be so!"
"A conclusive proof," I rejoined, "an unanswerable argument! Queen of Barataria, I salute you!"
"What is Barataria? Is it Cimarosa's new opera?"