Sant' Ilario Page 6

  CHAPTER VI.

  The improvised banquet at the Palazzo Saracinesca was not a merry one,but the probable dangers to the city and the disappearance of FaustinaMontevarchi furnished matter for plenty of conversation. The majorityinclined to the belief that the girl had lost her head and had runhome, but as neither Sant' Ilario nor his cousin returned, there wasmuch speculation. The prince said he believed that they had foundFaustina at her father's house and had stayed to dinner, whereupon somemalicious person remarked that it needed a revolution in Rome toproduce hospitality in such a quarter.

  Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, whispered to theprince that a gendarme wanted to speak with him on very importantbusiness.

  "Bring him here," answered old Saracinesca, aloud. "There is a gendarmeoutside," he added, addressing his guests, "he will tell us all thenews. Shall we have him here?"

  Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, for most ofthose present were anxious about their houses, not knowing what hadtaken place during the last two hours. The man was ushered in, andstood at a distance holding his three-cornered hat in his hand, andlooking rather sheepish and uncomfortable.

  "Well?" asked the prince. "What is the matter? We all wish to hear thenews."

  "Excellency," began the soldier, "I must ask many pardons for appearingthus---" Indeed his uniform was more or less disarranged and he lookedpale and fatigued.

  "Never mind your appearance. Speak up," answered old Saracinesca inencouraging tones.

  "Excellency," said the man, "I must apologise, but there is a gentlemanwho calls himself Don Giovanni, of your revered name---"

  "I know there is. He is my son. What about him?"

  "He is not the Senior Principe di Sant' Ilario, Excellency--he callshimself by another name--Marchese di--di--here is his card, Excellency."

  "My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I say?"

  "Your Excellency has a cousin---" stammered the gendarme.

  "Well? Is it against the law to have cousins?" cried the prince. "Whatis the matter with my cousin?"

  "Dio mio!" exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. "What acombination! Your Excellency's cousin is in the mortuary chamber atSanto Spirito!"

  "Is he dead?" asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, but starting from hischair.

  "No," cried the man, "questo e il male! That is the trouble! He isalive and very well!"

  "Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary chamber?" roared theprince.

  "Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to do with locking upthe Signor Marchese. It was the surgeon, Excellency, who took him for aGaribaldian. He shall be liberated at once---"

  "I should think so!" answered Saracinesca, savagely. "And what businesshave your asses of surgeons with gentlemen? My hat, Pasquale. And howon earth came my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?"

  "Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my duty."

  "And if you know nothing how the devil do you expect to do your duty! Iwill have you and the surgeon and the whole of Santo Spirito and allthe patients, in the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison before morning! Myhat, Pasquale, I say!"

  Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, who was anxious toescape all responsibility in the matter of San Giacinto's confinement,left the room and descended the grand staircase three steps at a time.Mounting his horse he galloped back through the now deserted streets tothe hospital.

  Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto heard the bolt of theheavy lock run back in the socket and the surgeon entered the mortuarychamber. San Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar and was growingimpatient, but the doctor made many apologies for his long absence.

  "An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case, Signor Marchese," he saidin explanation. "What would you have? We doctors are at the mercy ofnature! Pray forgive my neglect, but I could send no one, as you didnot wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody might find youhere. Pray come with me, and you shall see the young lady at once."

  "By all means," replied San Giacinto. "Dead men are poor company, and Iam in a hurry."

  The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and introduced hiscompanion to a small clean room in which a shaded lamp was burning. ASister of Mercy stood by the white bed, upon which lay a young girl,stretched out at her full length.

  "You are too late," said the nun very quietly. "She is dead, poorchild."

  San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror and was at thebedside even before the surgeon. He lifted the fair young creature inhis arms and stared at the cold face, holding it to the light. Thenwith a loud cry of astonishment he laid down his burden.

  "It is not she, Signor Professore," he said. "I must apologise for thetrouble I have given you. Pray accept my best thanks. There is aresemblance, but it is not she."

  The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed from theresponsibility which, as San Giacinto had told him, involved the honourof one of the greatest families in Rome. Before speaking, he satisfiedhimself that the young woman was really dead.

  "Death often makes faces look alike which have no resemblance to eachother in life," he remarked as he turned away. Then they both left theroom, followed at a little distance by the sister who was going tosummon the bearers to carry away her late charge.

  As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud voices inaltercation reached their ears, and as they emerged into the vestibule,they saw old Prince Saracinesca flourishing his stick in dangerousproximity to the head of the porter. The latter had retreated until hestood with his back against the wall.

  "I will have none of this lying," shouted the irate nobleman. "TheMarchese is here--the gendarme told me he was in the mortuarychamber--if he is not produced at once I will break your rascallyneck---" The man was protesting as fast and as loud as his assailantthreatened him.

  "Eh! My good cousin!" cried San Giacinto, whose unmistakable voice atonce made the prince desist from his attack and turn round. "Do notkill the fellow! I am alive and well, as you see."

  A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon was obliged toadmit that as San Giacinto had no means of proving any identity he, thedoctor in charge, had thought it best to send for the police, in viewof the unquiet state of the city.

  "But what brought you here?" asked old Saracinesca, who was puzzled toaccount for his cousin's presence in the hospital.

  San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not care a pin for theannoyance to which he had been subjected. He was anxious, too, to getaway, and having half guessed the surgeon's suspicions was not at allsurprised by the revelation concerning the gendarme.

  "Allow me to thank you again," he said politely, turning to the doctor."I have no doubt you acted quite rightly. Let us go," he added,addressing the prince.

  The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he hadsustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street.Saracinesca again asked for an explanation.

  "Very simple," replied San Giacinto. "Donna Faustina was not at herfather's house, so your son and I separated to continue our search.Chancing to find myself here--for I do not know my way about thecity--I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two Zouaveshad been found dead and had been taken into the hospital. Fearing lestone of them might have been Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when Iwas locked up with the dead bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, by thebye, was not one of them."

  "It is outrageous---" began Saracinesca, but his companion did notallow him to proceed.

  "It is no matter," he said, quickly. "The important thing is to findDonna Faustina. I suppose you have no news of her."

  "None. Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared."

  "Then we must continue the search as best we can," said San Giacinto.Thereupon they both got into the prince's cab and drove away.

  It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed thebridge of Sant' Angelo. There had been some sharp fighting at the
PortaSan Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary. Butrest was not to be expected that night, and the tired soldiers were ledback to do sentry duty in the neighbourhood of their quarters. Theofficer halted the little body in the broad space beyond.

  "Monsieur Gouache," said the lieutenant, "you will take a corporal'sguard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the barracks--if thereis anything left of them," he added with a mournful laugh.

  Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves behindhim. The officer was a good friend of his.

  "I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?"

  "Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter."

  "Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. I will see thatyou are relieved before morning. Shoulder arms! March!"

  So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men athis heels. Among the number there was the son of a French duke, anEnglish gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror astheir descendant now marched behind the Parisian artist, a young Swissdoctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish peasants, and two or threeothers. When they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the placewas deserted. The men who had been set to work at clearing away therubbish had soon found what a hopeless task they had undertaken; andthe news having soon spread that only the regimental musicians were inthe barracks at the time, and that these few had been in allprobability in the lower story of the building, where the band-room wassituated, all attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until thenext day.

  Gouache and many others had escaped death almost miraculously, for fiveminutes had not elapsed after they had started at the double-quick forthe Porta San Paolo, when the building was blown up. The news had ofcourse been brought to them while they were repulsing the attack uponthe gate, but it was not until many hours afterwards that a smalldetachment could safely be spared to return to their devastatedquarters. Gouache himself had been just in time to join his comrades,and with them had seen most of the fighting. He now placed his men atproper distances along the street, and found leisure to reflect uponwhat had occurred. He was hungry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder,but there was evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. Thenight, too, was growing cold, and he found it necessary to walk brisklyabout to keep himself warm. At first he tramped backwards and forwards,some fifty paces each way, but growing weary of the monotonousexercise, he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. Hisquick imagination called up the scene as it must have looked at themoment of the explosion, and then reverted with a sharp pang to thethought of his poor comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to death many feetbelow the stones on which he trod.

  Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed in his thoughts,the low wailing of a woman's voice reached his ears. The soundproceeded apparently from no great distance, but the tone was very softand low. Gradually, as he listened, he thought he distinguished words,but such words as he had not expected to hear, though they expressedhis own feeling well enough.

  "Requiem eternam dona eis!"

  It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely familiar. Heheld his breath and strained every faculty to catch the sounds.

  "Requiem sempiternam--sempiternam--sempiternam!" The despairing tonestrembled at the third repetition, and then the voice broke intopassionate sobbing.

  Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half believed that whathe heard was due to his imagination, but the sudden weeping left nodoubt that it was real. Cautiously he made his way amongst the ruins,until he stopped short in amazement not unmingled with horror.

  In an angle where a part of the walls was still standing, a woman wason her knees, her hands stretched wildly out before her, herdarkly-clad figure faintly revealed by the beams of the waning moon.The covering had fallen back from her head upon her shoulders, and thestruggling rays fell upon her beautiful features, marking their angelicoutline with delicate light. Still Anastase remained motionless,scarcely believing his eyes, and yet knowing that lovely face too wellnot to believe. It was Donna Faustina Montevarchi who knelt there atmidnight, alone, repeating the solemn words from the mass for the dead;it was for him that she wept, and he knew it.

  Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy filledthe young man's heart, a joy such as must be felt to be known, for itpasses the power of earthly words to tell it. In that dim and ghastlyplace the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair country;the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken stone grew more lovely thanthe loveliest flowers, and from the dark figure of that lonelyheart-broken woman the man who loved her saw a radiance proceedingwhich overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart. In theintensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stonecontracted suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar.

  At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her eyes were wide andwild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short, sharp cry,and staggered backward against the wall. In a moment Anastase was ather side, supporting her and looking into her face.

  "Faustina!"

  During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him,stiffening herself and holding her face away from his. It was as thoughhis ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her. Then the wildlook shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened and thecolour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very slowly she drew himtowards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips met in a long, sweetkiss--then her strength forsook her and she swooned away in his arms.

  Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the wall,and then knelt down by her side. He did not know what to do, and had heknown, it would have availed him little. His instinct told him that shewould presently recover consciousness and his emotions had so whollyovercome him that he could only look at her lovely face as her headrested upon his arm. But while he waited a great fear began to stealinto his heart. He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place,and how her coming was to be accounted for. It was long past midnight,now, and he guessed what trouble and anxiety there would be in herfather's house until she was found. He represented to himself in quicksuccession the scenes which would follow his appearance at the PalazzoMontevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms--or ina cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been in suchstraits.

  Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on hisbreast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was safe, andthen at last she sat up and looked him in the face.

  "I was so sure you were killed," said she, in her soft voice.

  "My darling!" he exclaimed, pressing her to his side.

  "Are you not glad to be alive?" she asked. "For my sake, at least! Youdo not know what I have suffered."

  Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all theunheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of holdingher in his arms. His silence, indeed, was more eloquent than any wordscould have been. "My beloved!" he said at last, "how could you run suchrisks for me? Do you think I am worthy of so much love? And yet, ifloving you can make me worthy of you, I am the most deserving man thatever lived--and I live only for you. But for you I might as well beburied under our feet here with my poor comrades. But tell me,Faustina, were you not afraid to come? How long have you been here? Itis very late--it is almost morning."

  "Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You ask how I came?Did I not tell you I would follow you? Why did you run on without me? Iran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracksthere was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot tell how.Soon I got to my feet and crept under a doorway. I suppose I must havefainted, for I thought you were killed. I saw a soldier before me, justwhen it happened, and he must have been struck. I took him for you.When I came to myself there were so many people in the street that Icould not move from where I was. Then they went away, and I came herewhile the workmen tr
ied to move the stones, and I watched them andbegged them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to givethem, so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to waituntil to-morrow to find you--for I would have waited--no one shouldhave dragged me away--ah! my darling--my beloved! What does anythingmatter now that you are safe!"

  For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing thatthe situation could not last, but neither willing to speak the wordwhich must end it. Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty. Notonly was he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina intoher father's house unobserved at such an hour; he was in command of themen stationed in the neighbourhood, and to leave his post under anycircumstances whatever would be a very grave breach of duty. He couldneither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could he accompany her. Hecould not send one of his men for a friend to help him, since to takeany one into his confidence was to ruin the girl's reputation in theeyes of all Rome. To find a cab at that time of night was almost out ofthe question. The position seemed desperate. Faustina, too, was a merechild, and it was impossible to explain to her the social consequencesof her being discovered with him.

  "I think, perhaps," said she after a happy silence, and in rather atimid voice--"I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now. Theywill be anxious, you know," she added, as though fearing that he shouldsuspect her of wishing to leave him.

  "Yes, I must take you home," answered Gouache, somewhat absently. Toher his tone sounded cold.

  "Are you angry, because I want to go?" asked the young girl, lookinglovingly into his face.

  "Angry? No indeed, darling! I ought to have taken you home at once--butI was too happy to think of it. Of course your people must be terriblyanxious, and the question is how to manage your entrance. Can you getinto the house unseen? Is there any way? Any small door that is open?"

  "We can wake the porter," said Faustina, simply. "He will let us in."

  "It would not do. How can I go to your father and tell him that I foundyou here? Besides, the porter knows me."

  "Well, if he does, what does it matter?"

  "He would talk about it to other servants, and all Rome would know itto-morrow. You must go home with a woman, and to do that we must findsome one you know. It would be a terrible injury to you to have such astory repeated abroad."

  "Why?"

  To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready answer. Hesmiled quietly and pressed her to his side more closely.

  "The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man and know it. Youmust trust me to do what is best. Will you?"

  "How can you ask? I will always trust you."

  "Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go home with thePrincess Sant' Ilario."

  "With Corona? But--"

  "She knows that I love you, and she is the only woman in Rome whom Iwould trust. Do not be surprised. She asked me if it was true, and Isaid it was. I am on duty here, and you must wait for me while I makethe rounds of my sentries--it will not take five minutes. Then I willtake you to the Palazzo Saracinesca. I shall not be missed here for anhour."

  "I will do whatever you wish," said Faustina. "Perhaps that is best.But I am afraid everybody will be asleep. Is it not very late?"

  "I will wake them up if they are sleeping."

  He left her to make his round and soon assured himself that his menwere not napping. Then before he returned he stopped at the corner of astreet and by the feeble moonlight scratched a few words on a leaf fromhis notebook.

  "Madame," he wrote, "I have found Donna Faustina Montevarchi, who hadlost her way. It is absolutely necessary that you should accompany herto her father's house. You are the only person whom I can trust. I amat your gate. Bring something in the way of a cloak to disguise herwith."

  He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it into hispocket where he could readily find it. Then he went back to the placewhere Faustina was waiting. He helped her out of the ruins, and passingthrough a side street so as to avoid the sentinels, they made their wayrapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged Gouache who gave the wordat once and was allowed to pass on with his charge. In less than aquarter of an hour they were at the Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache madeFaustina stand in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite side of thestreet and advanced to the great doors. A ray of light which passedthrough the crack of a shutter behind the heavy iron grating on oneside of the arch showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew hisbayonet from his side and tapped with its point against the high window.

  "Who is there?" asked the porter, thrusting his head out.

  "Is the Principe di Sant' Ilario still awake?" asked Gouache.

  "He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. What do you want? Theprincess is sitting up to wait for the prince."

  "That will do as well," replied Anastase. "I am sent with this notefrom the Vatican. It needs an immediate answer. Be good enough to saythat I was ordered to wait."

  The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the sight of a Zouave wasjust then more agreeable than usual. He put his arm out through thegrating and took the paper.

  "It does not look as though it came from the Vatican," he remarkeddoubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the light of his lamp.

  "The cardinal is waiting--make haste!" said Gouache. It struck him thateven if the man could read a little, which was not improbable, theinitials A. G., being those of Cardinal Antonelli in reversed orderwould be enough to frighten the fellow and make him move quickly. This,indeed was precisely what occurred.

  In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened and Gouache sawCorona's tall figure step out into the street. She hesitated a momentwhen she saw the Zouave alone, and then closed the door with a snapbehind her. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his arm.

  "Let us be quick," he said, "or the porter will see us. Donna Faustinais under that doorway. You know how grateful I am--there is no time tosay it."

  Corona said nothing but hastened to Faustina's side. The latter put herarms about her friend's neck and kissed her. The princess threw a widecloak over the young girl's shoulders and drew the hood over her head.

  "Let us be quick," said Corona, repeating Gouache's words. They walkedquickly away in silence, and no one spoke until they leached thePalazzo Montevarchi. Explanations were impossible, and every one wastoo much absorbed by the danger of the situation to speak of anythingelse. When they were a few steps from the gate Corona stopped.

  "You may leave us here," she said coldly, addressing Gouache.

  "But, princess, I will see you home," protested the latter, somewhatsurprised by her tone.

  "No--I will take a servant back with me. Will you be good enough toleave us?" she asked almost haughtily, as Gouache still lingered.

  He had no choice but to obey her commands, though for some time hecould not explain to himself the cause of the princess's behaviour.

  "Goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle," he said, quietly. Thenwith a low bow he turned away and disappeared in the darkness. In fiveminutes he had reached the bridge, running at the top of his speed, andhe regained his post without his absence having been observed.

  When the two women were alone, Corona laid her hand upon Faustina'sshoulder and looked down into the girl's face.

  "Faustina, my child," she said, "how could you be led into such a wildscrape?"

  "Why did you treat him so unkindly?" asked the young girl with flashingeyes. "It was cruel and unkind--"

  "Because he deserved it," answered Corona, with rising anger. "Howcould he dare--from my house--a mere child like you---"

  "I do not know what you imagine," said Faustina in a tone of deepresentment. "I followed him to the Serristori barracks, and I faintedwhen they were blown up. He found me and brought me to you, because hesaid I could not go back to my father's house with him. If I love himwhat is that to you?"

  "It is a great deal to me that he should have got you into thistrouble."

  "He did not. If it is troubl
e, I got myself into it. Do you love himyourself that you are so angry?"

  "I!" cried Corona in amazement at the girl's audacity. "Poor Gouache!"she added with a half-scornful, half-pitying laugh. "Come, child! Letus go in. We cannot stand here all night talking. I will tell yourmother that you lost your way in our house and were found asleep in adistant room. The lock was jammed, and you could not get out."

  "I think I will simply tell the truth," answered Faustina.

  "You will do nothing of the kind," said Corona, sternly. "Do you knowwhat would happen? You would be shut up in a convent by your father forseveral years, and the world would say that I had favoured yourmeetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling matter. You needsay nothing. I will give the whole explanation myself, and take theresponsibility of the falsehood upon my own shoulders."

  "I promised him to do as he bid me," replied Faustina. "I suppose hewould have me follow your advice, and so I will. Are you still angry,Corona?"

  "I will try not to be, if you will be sensible."

  They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. The whole householdwas on foot, though it was past one o'clock. It is unnecessary todescribe the emotions of Faustina's relations, nor their gratitude toCorona, whose explanation they accepted at once, with a delight whichmay easily be imagined.

  "But your porter said he had seen her leave your house," said thePrincess Montevarchi, recollecting the detail and anxious to have itexplained.

  "He was mistaken, in his fright," returned Corona, calmly. "It was onlymy maid, who ran out to see what was the matter and returned soonafterwards."

  There was nothing more to be said. The old prince and Ascanio Bellegrawalked home with Corona, who refused to wait until a carriage could begot ready, on the ground that her husband might have returned from thesearch and might be anxious at her absence. She left her escort at herdoor and mounted the steps alone. As she was going up the porter camerunning after her.

  "Excellency," he said in low tones, "the Signor Principe came backwhile you were gone, and I told him that you had received a note fromthe Vatican and had gone away with the Zouave who brought it. I hope Idid right---"

  "Of course you did," replied Corona. She was a calm woman and noteasily thrown off her guard, but as she made her answer she wasconscious of an unpleasant sensation wholly new to her. She had neverdone anything concerning which she had reason to ask herself whatGiovanni would think of it. For the first time since her marriage withhim she knew that she had something to conceal. How, indeed, was itpossible to tell him the story of Faustina's wild doings? Giovanni wasa man who knew the world, and had no great belief in its virtues. Totell him what had occurred would be to do Faustina an irreparableinjury in his eyes. He would believe his wife, no doubt, but he wouldtell her that Faustina had deceived her. She cared little what he mightthink of Gouache, for she herself was incensed against him, believingthat he must certainly have used some persuasion to induce Faustina tofollow him, mad as the idea seemed.

  Corona had little time for reflection, however. She could not standupon the stairs, and as soon as she entered the house she must meet herhusband. She made up her mind hurriedly to do what in most cases isextremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir, pale and anxious. Hehad forgotten that he had not dined that evening and was smoking acigarette with short sharp puffs.

  "Thank God!" he cried, as his wife entered the room. "Where have youbeen, my darling?"

  "Giovanni," said Corona, gravely, laying her two hands on hisshoulders, "you know you can trust me--do you not?"

  "As I trust Heaven," he answered, tenderly.

  "You must trust me now, then," said she. "I cannot tell you where Ihave been. I will tell you some day, you have my solemn promise.Faustina Montevarchi is with her mother. I took her back, and told themshe had followed me from the room, had lost her way in the house, andhad accidentally fastened a door which she could not open. You mustsupport the story. You need only say that I told you so, because youwere out at the time. I will not lie to you, so I tell you that Iinvented the story."

  Sant' Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which he lookedsteadily into his wife's eyes, which met his without flinching.

  "You shall do as you please, Corona," he said at last, returning thecigarette to his lips and still looking at her. "Will you answer me onequestion?"

  "If I can without explaining."

  "That Zouave who brought the message from the Vatican--was he Gouache?"

  Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. To refuse to answerwas tantamount to admitting the truth, and she would not lie to herhusband.

  "It was Gouache," she said, after a moment's hesitation.

  "I thought so," answered Sant' Ilario in a low voice. He moved away,throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. "Very well," he continued,"I will remember to tell the story as you told it to me, and I am sureyou will tell me the truth some day."

  "Of course," said Corona. "And I thank you, Giovanni, with my wholeheart! There is no one like you, dear."

  She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and taking his hand shepressed it to her lips. She knew well enough what a strange thing shehad asked, and she was indeed grateful to him. He stooped down andkissed her forehead.

  "I will always trust you," he said, softly. "Tell me, dear one, hasthis matter given you pain? Is it a secret that will trouble you?"

  "Not now," she answered, frankly.

  Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his wife. He knew,better than any living man, how well worthy she was of his utmostconfidence, and he meant what he said. It must be confessed that thesituation was a trying one to a man of his temper, and the depth of hislove for Corona can be judged from the readiness with which heconsented to her concealing anything from him. Every circumstanceconnected with what had happened that evening was strange, and theconclusion, instead of elucidating the mystery, only made it moremysterious still. His cousin's point-blank declaration that Faustinaand Gouache were in love was startling to all his ideas and prejudices.He had seen Gouache kiss Corona's hand in a corner of the drawing-room,a proceeding which he did not wholly approve, though it was commonenough. Then Gouache and Faustina had disappeared. Then Faustina hadbeen found, and to facilitate the finding it had been necessary thatCorona and Gouache should leave the palace together at one o'clock inthe morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his confidence in her andhad taken advantage of it to refuse any present explanation whatever ofher proceedings. Corona was a very noble and true woman, and he hadpromised to trust her. How far he kept his word will appear hereafter.