Agatha had suffered so much, the secrets she had had to keep had been so painful, that she had become very skilful in feigning, when it was necessary to take that trouble. Michel and the marquis admired the presence of mind which she displayed throughout the whole affair in extricating herself from an alarming position. But Fra Angelo became very sad, and Michel sought his couch much less light-hearted in his palace than he had been in his garret. The necessary precautions, the constant dissimulation to which he must resort, revealed the anxieties and perils of grandeur. The Capuchin feared that he would be corrupted in spite of himself. Michel was not afraid of being corrupted, but he felt that he must keep a close watch upon himself, and make himself small in order to preserve his peace of mind and domestic happiness, or else enter upon a struggle which would end only with his fortune or his life.
He resigned himself to his fate. He determined that he would be prudent for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of probability.
Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself. Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of the Destatore's cross, reading the inscription which the justicier d'aventure had written there. He could readily have imagined without my assistance the chapter which he has just read—and read with languid interest, I warrant—saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected it; that goes without saying."
But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.
Why are all dénouements more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a dénouement; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid, poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear the truthful aspect which arouses interest.
But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:
"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be absurd—aye cowardly—in him to seem to endure it without shame or impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself, I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well! I will be your brother—nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love. But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend, his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."
The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid, and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than his words.
The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than the Marquis della Serra?
The young prince knelt at her feet.