Don Orsino

VI.

ORSINO had shown less anxiety to see Madame d’Aranjuez than might perhaps have been expected. In the ten days which had elapsed between the sitting at Gouache’s studio and the 1st of January he had only once made an attempt to find her at home, and that attempt had failed. He had not even seen her passing in the street, and he had not been conscious of any uncontrollable desire to catch a glimpse of her at any price.

But he had not forgotten her existence, as he would certainly have forgotten that of a wholly indifferent person in the same time. On the contrary, he had thought of her frequently, and had indulged in many speculations concerning her, wondering, among other matters, why he did not take more trouble to see her, since she occupied his thoughts so much. He did not know that he was in reality hesitating, for he would not. have acknowledged to himself that he could be in danger of falling seriously in love. He was too young to admit such a possibility, and the character

which he admired and meant to assume was altogether too cold and superior to such weaknesses. To do him justice, he was really not of the sort to fall in love at first sight. Persons capable of a self-imposed dualism rarely are, for the second nature they build up on the foundation of their own is never wholly artificial. The disposition to certain modes of thought and habits of bearing is really present, as is sufficiently proved by their admiration of both. Very shy persons, for instance, invariably admire very self-possessed ones, and in trying to imitate them occasionally exhibit a cold-blooded arrogance which is amazing. Timothy Titmouse secretly looks up to Don Juan as his ideal, and after half a lifetime of failure outdoes his model, to the horror of his friends. Dionysus masks as Hercules, and the fox is sometimes not unsuccessful in his saint’s disguise. Those who have been intimate with a great actor know that the characters he plays best are not all assumed; there is a little of each in his own nature. There is a touch of the real Othello in Salvini; there is, perhaps, a strain of the melancholy Scandinavian in English Irving.

To be short, Orsino Saracinesca was too enthusiastic to be wholly cold, and too thoughtful to be thoroughly enthusiastic. He saw things differently according to his moods, and, being dissatisfied, he tried to make one mood prevail constantly over the other. In a mean nature the double view often makes an untruthful individual; in one possessing honorable instincts it frequently leads to unhappiness. Affectation then becomes aspiration, and the man’s failure to impose on others is forgotten in his misery at failing to impose upon himself.

The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria Consuelo on the morning of the great ceremony recalled vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with her ten days earlier, and he determined to see her as soon as possible. He was out of conceit with himself, and consequently with all those who knew him, and he looked forward with pleasure to the conversation of an attractive woman who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and who could take him at his own estimate. He was curious, too, to find out something more definite in regard to her. She was mysterious, and the mystery pleased him. She had admitted that her deceased husband had spoken of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not discover where the relationship lay. Spicca’s very odd remark, too, seemed to point to her in some way which Orsino could not understand; and he remembered her having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her husband had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but she had given no clue to her own nationality, and she did not look Spanish, in spite of her name, Maria Consuelo. As no one in Rome knew her, it was impossible to get any information whatever. It was all very interesting.

Accordingly, late on the afternoon of the 2d of January, Orsino called, and was led to the door of a small sitting-room on the second floor of the hotel. The servant shut the door behind him, and Orsino found himself alone. A lamp with a pretty shade was burning on the table, and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained a few flowers, — common roses, but fresh and fragrant. Two or three new books in yellow paper covers lay scattered upon the hideous velvet table-cloth, and beside one of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper-cutter of chiseled silver, bearing a large monogram done in brilliants and rubies. The thing contrasted oddly with its surroundings, and attracted the light. An easychair was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered with perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco cushion, of the kind used in traveling, was balanced on the back, and there was a depression in it, as though some one’s head had lately rested there.

Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for Madame d’Aranjuez to appear; and they were not without interest to him, for each one told a story, and the stories were contradictory. The room was not encumbered with those numberless objects which most women scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel ; yet Madame d’Aranjuez must have been at least a month in Rome. The room smelt neither of perfume nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, and a little of the lamp, which was much worse. The lady’s only possessions seemed to be three books, a travelingcushion, and a somewhat too gorgeous paper-cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He glanced at the books: they were of the latest, and only one had been cut. The cushion might have been bought that morning. Not a breath had tarnished the polished blade of the silver knife.

A door opened softly, and Orsino drew himself up as some one pushed ill the heavy, vivid curtains. But it was not Madame d’Aranjuez. A small, dark woman, of middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black hair, came forward a step.

“The signora will come presently,” she said in Italian, in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of hearing herself speak.

She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had come. This was evidently the silent maid of whom Gouache had spoken. The few words she had spoken had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian from the north; for she had the unmistakable accent of the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible only by themselves.

Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the message could hardly have been sent without an object, but another minute had not elapsed before Maria Consuelo herself appeared. In the soft lamplight, her clear white skin looked very pale, and her auburn hair almost red. She wore one of those nondescript garments which we have elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin grammar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real. The colors produced no impression upon him whatever. As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in various shades of olive.

Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her hand, but said nothing. She did not even smile, and Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit.

“ It was very good of you to let me come,” he said, waiting for her to sit down.

Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco cushion carefully in the particular position which would be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a little, which of course produced no change whatever in the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half across the table, and at last sat down in the easy-chair. Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee. He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or whether she might not be one of those people who are painfully shy when there is no third person present.

“ I think it was very good of you to come,” she said at last, when she was comfortably settled.

“ I wish goodness were always so easy,” answered Orsino, with alacrity.

“Is it your ambition to be good?” asked Maria Consuelo, with a smile.

“ It should be. But it is not a career.”

“ Then you do not believe in saints ? ”

“ Not until they are canonized and made articles of belief, — unless you are one, madame.”

“I have thought of trying it.” answered Maria, Consuelo calmly. “ Saintship is a career, even in society, whatever you may say to the contrary. It has attractions, after all.”

“ Not equal to those of the other side. Every one admits that. The majority is evidently in favor of sin ; and if we are to believe in modern institutions, we must believe that majorities are right.”

“ Then the hero is always wrong ; for he is the enthusiastic individual who is always for facing odds; and if no one disagrees with him he is very unhappy. Yet there are heroes ” —

“ Where ? ” asked Orsino. “ The heroes people talk of ride bronze horses or stand on inaccessible pedestals. When the bell rings for a revolution they are all knocked down, and new ones are set up in their places,—also executed by the best artists, — and the old ones are cast into cannon to knock to pieces the ideas they invented. That is called history.”

“You take a cheerful and encouraging view of the world’s history. Don Orsino.”

“ The world is made for us, and we must accept it; but we may criticise it. There is nothing to the contrary in the contract.”

“ In the social contract? Are you going to talk to me about Jean Jacques ? ”

“Have you read him, madame?”

“ ' No woman who respects herself — began Maria Consuelo, quoting the famous preface.

“ I see that you have,” said Orsino, with a laugh. “ I have not.”

“ Nor I.”

To Orsino’s surprise, Madame d’Aranjuez: blushed. He could not have told why he was pleased, nor why her change of color seemed so unexpected.

“ Speaking of history,” he said, after a very slight pause, “ why did you thank me yesterday for having got you a card ? ”

“ Did you not speak to Gouache about it?”

“I said something; I forget what. Did he manage it?”

“ Of course. I had his wife’s place. She could not go. Do you dislike being thanked for your good offices? Are you so modest as that? ”

“Not in the least, but I hate misunderstandings, though I will get all the credit I can for what I have not done, like other people. When I saw that you knew the Del Ferice, I thought that perhaps she had been exerting herself.”

“ Why do you hate her so ? ” asked Maria Consuelo.

“ I do not hate her. She does not exist, — that is all.”

“ Why does she not exist, as you call it ? She is a very good-natured woman. Tell me the truth. Everybody hates her. I saw that by the way they bowed to her, while we were waiting. Why ? There must be a reason. Is she a — an incorrect person ? ”

Orsino laughed.

“No. That is the point at which existence is more likely to begin than to end.”

“ How cynical you are! I do not like that. Tell me about Madame Del Ferice.”

“ Very well. To begin with, she is a relation of mine.”

“ Seriously ? ”

“ Seriously. Of course that gives me a right to handle the whole dictionary of abuse against her.”

“Of course. Are you going to do that ? ”

“ No. You would call me cynical. I do not like you to call me by bad names, madame.”

“I had an idea that men liked it,” observed Maria Consuelo gravely.

“ One does not like to hear disagreeable truths.”

“Then it is the truth? Go on. You have forgotten what we were talking about.”

“Not at all. Donna Tullia, my second, third, or fourth cousin, was married, once upon a time, to a certain Mayer.”

“ And left him. How interesting ! ”

“No, madame. He left her — very suddenly, I believe — for another world. Better or worse ? Who can say ? Considering his past life, worse, I suppose; but considering that he was not obliged to take Donna Tullia with him, decidedly better.”

“ You certainly hate her. Then she married Del Ferice ? ”

“Then she married Del Ferice. — before I was born. She is fabulously old. Mayer left her very rich, and without conditions. Del Ferice was an impossible person. My father nearly killed him in a duel, once, — also before I was born. I never knew what it was about. Del Ferice was a spy, in the old days when spies got a living in a Rome ” —

“ Ah, I see it all now! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo. “ Del Ferice is White, and you are Black. Of course you hate each other. You need not tell me any more.”

“ How you take that for granted ! ”

“Is it not perfectly clear? Do not talk to me of like and dislike when your dreadful parties have anything to do with either! Besides, if I had any sympathy with either side, it would be for the Whites. But the whole thing is absurd, complicated, mediæval, feudal, — anything you like except sensible. Your intolerance is — intolerable.”

“ True tolerance should tolerate even intolerance,” observed Orsino smartly.

“ That sounds like one of the puzzles of pronunciation, like ' in un piatto poco capo poco pepe pistocape,’ ” laughed Maria Consuelo. “ Tolerably tolerable tolerance tolerates tolerable tolerance intolerably ” —

“ You speak Italian ? ” asked Orsino, surprised at her glib enunciation of the difficult sentence she had quoted. “ Why are we talking a foreign language ? ”

“ I cannot really speak Italian. I have taken an Italian maid who speaks French. But she taught me that puzzle.”

“ It is odd. Your maid is a Piedmontese, and you have a good accent.”

“ Have I? I am very glad. But tell me, is it not absurd that you should hate these people as you do — you cannot deny it — merely because they are Whites ? ”

“Everything in life is absurd, if you take the opposite point of view. Lunatics find endless amusement in watching sane people.”

“ And of course you are the sane people,” observed Maria Consuelo.

“ Of course.”

“What becomes of me ? I suppose I do not exist ? You would not be rude enough to class me with the lunatics ? ”

“ Certainly not. You will, of course, choose to be a Black.”

“ In order to be discontented, as you are ? ”

“ Discontented ? ”

“ Yes. Are you not utterly out. of sympathy with your surroundings ? Are you not hampered at every step by a network of traditions which have no meaning to your intelligence, but which are laid on you like a harness upon a horse, and in which you are driven your daily little round of tiresome amusement— or dissipation ? Do you not hate the Corso as an omnibus horse hates it ? Do you not really hate the very faces of all those people who effectually prevent you from using your own intelligence, your own strength, your own heart ? One sees it in your face. You are too young to be tired of life. No, I am not going to call you a boy, though I am older than you, Don Orsino. You will find people enough in your own surroundings to call you a boy, because you are not yet so utterly tamed and wearied as they are, and for no other reason. You are a man. I do not know your age, but you do not talk as boys do. You are a man: then be a man altogether; be independent; use your hands for something better than throwing mud at other people’s houses merely because they are new.”

Orsino looked at her in astonishment. This was certainly not the sort of conversation he had anticipated when he had entered the room.

“You are surprised because I speak like this,” she said, after a short pause. “ You are a Saracinesea, and I am — a stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow, whom you will probably never see again. It is amusing, is it not? Why do you not laugh ? ”

Maria Consuelo smiled, and, as usual, her strong red lips closed as soon as she had finished speaking, a habit which lent the smile something unusual, half mysterious, and self-contained.

“ I see nothing t,o laugh at,” answered Orsino. “ Did the mythological personage. whose name I have forgotten, laugh when the Sphinx proposed the riddle to him ? ”

“That is the third time within the last few days that I have been compared to a sphinx by you or Gouache. The comparison lacks originality in the end.”

“ I was not thinking of being original. I was too much interested. Your riddle is the problem of my life.”

“ The resemblance ceases there. I cannot eat you up, if you do not guess the answer, or if you do not take my advice. I am not prepared to go so far as that.”

“ Was it advice ? It sounded more like a question.”

“ I would not ask one when I am sure of getting no answer. Besides, I do not like being laughed at.”

“ What has that to do with the matter ? Why imagine anything so impossible ? ”

“ After all, perhaps it is more foolish to say, ‘ I advise you to do so and so,’ than to ask, ‘ Why do you not do so and so ? ’ Advice is always disagreeable, and the adviser is always more or less ridiculous. Advice brings its own punishment.”

“ Is that not cynical ? ” asked Orsino.

“No. Why? What is the worst thing you can do to your social enemy ? Prevail upon him to give you his counsel, act upon it, — it will, of course, turn out badly, — then say, ' I feared this would happen, but, as you advised me, I did not like ’ — and so on. That is simple, and always effectual. Try it.”

“ Not for worlds ! ”

“ I did not mean with me,” answered Maria Consuelo, with a laugh.

“ No. I am afraid there are other reasons which will prevent me from making a career for myself,” said Orsino thoughtfully.

Maria Consuelo saw by his face that the sub ject was a serious one with him, as she had already guessed that it must be, and one which would always interest him. She therefore let it drop, keeping it in reserve in case the conversation flagged.

“ I am going to see Madame Del Ferice to-morrow,” she observed, changing the subject.

“ Do you think that is necessary ? ”

“ Since I wish it! I have not your reasons for avoiding her.”

“ I offended you the other day, madame, did I not? You remember, — when I offered my services in a social way.”

“No; you amused me,” answered Maria Consuelo coolly, and watching to see how he would take the rebuke.

But, young as Orsino was, he was a match for her in self-possession.

” I am very glad,” he rejoined, without a trace of annoyance. “ I feared you were displeased.”

Maria Consuelo smiled again, and her momentary coldness vanished. The answer delighted her, and did more to interest her in Orsino than fifty clever sayings could have done. She resolved to push the question a little further.

“ I will be frank,” she said.

“ It is always best,” answered Orsino, beginning to suspect that something very tortuous was coming. His disbelief in phrases of the kind, though originally artificial, was becoming profound.

“ Yes, I will be quite frank,” she repeated. You do not wish me to know the Del Ferice and their set, and you do wish me to know the people you like.”

“ Evidently.”

“ Why should I not do as I please?”

She was clearly trying to entrap him into a foolish answer, and he grew more and more wary.

“ It would be very strange if you did not,” said Orsino, without hesitation.

“ Why, again ? ”

“ Because you are absolutely free to make your own choice.”

“ And if my choice does not meet with your approval ? ” she asked.

“ What can I say, madame ? My friends and I will be the losers, not you.”

Orsino had kept his temper admirably, and he did not suffer a hasty word to escape his lips nor a shadow of irritation to appear in his face. Yet she had pressed him in a way which was little short of rude. She was silent for a few seconds, during which Orsino watched her face as she turned it slightly away from him and from the lamp. In reality he was wondering why she was not more communicative about herself, and speculating as to whether her silence in that quarter proceeded from the consciousness of a perfectly assured position in the world, or from the fact that she had something to conceal; and this idea led him to congratulate himself upon not having been obliged to act immediately upon his first proposal by bringing about an acquaintance between Madame d’Aranjuez and his mother. This uncertainty lent a spice of interest to the acquaintance. He knew enough of the world already to be sure that Maria Consuelo was born and bred in that state of life to which it has pleased Providence to call the social elect. But the peculiar people sometimes do strange things, and afterwards establish themselves in foreign cities where their doings are not likely to be known for some time. Not that Orsino cared what this particular stranger’s past might have been. But he knew that his mother would care very much indeed, if Orsino wished her to know the mysterious lady, and would sift the matter very thoroughly before asking her to the Palazzo Saracinesca. Donna Tullia, on the other hand, had committed herself to the acquaintance on her own responsibility, evidently taking it for granted that if Orsino knew Madame d’Aran juez the latter must be socially irreproachable. It amused Orsino to imagine the fat countess’s rage if it turned out that she had made a mistake.

“ I shall be the loser, too,” said Maria Consuelo, in a different tone, “ if I make a bad choice. But I cannot draw back. I took her to her house in my carriage. She seemed to take a fancy to me” — She laughed a little.

Orsino smiled, as though to imply that the circumstance did not surprise him.

“ And she said she would come to see me. As a stranger, I could not do less than insist upon making the first visit, and I named the day, — or rather she did. I am going to-morrow.”

“To-morrow? Tuesday is her day. You will meet all her friends.”

“ Do you mean to say that people still have days in Rome?” Maria Consuelo did not look pleased.

“ Some people do, — very few. Most people prefer to be at home one evening in the week.”

“ What sort of people are Madame Del Ferice’s friends ? ”

“ Excellent people.”

“ Why are you so cautious ?”

“ Because you are about to be one of them, madame.”

“Am I? No, I will not begin another catechism ! You are too clever ; I shall never get a direct answer from you.”

“ Not in that way,” said Orsino, with a frankness that made his companion smile.

“ How then ? ”

“ I think you would know how,” he replied gravely, and he fixed his young black eyes on her with an expression that made her half close her own.

“ I should think you would make a good actor,” she said softly.

“ Provided that I might be allowed to be sincere between the acts.”

“That sounds well. A little ambiguous, perhaps. Your sincerity might or might not take the same direction as the part you had been acting.”

“ That would depend entirely upon yourself, madame.”

This time Maria Consuelo opened her eyes instead of closing them.

“You do not lack — what shall I say ? — a certain assurance ; you do not waste time.”

She laughed merrily, and Orsino laughed with her.

“ We are between the acts now,” he said. “ The curtain goes up to-morrow, and you join the enemy.”

“Come with me, then.”

“In your carriage? I shall be enchanted.”

“No. You know I do not mean that. Come with me to the enemy’s camp. It will be very amusing.”

Orsino shook his head.

“I would rather die,—if possible at your feet, madame.”

“ Are you afraid to call upon Madame Del Ferice ? ”

“ More than of death itself.”

“ How can you say that ? ”

“ The conditions of the life to come are doubtful, — there might be a chance for me. There is no doubt at all as to what would happen if I went to see Madame Del Ferice.”

“ Is your father so severe with you?” asked Maria Consuelo, with a little scorn.

“ Alas, madame, I am not sensitive to ridicule,” replied Orsino, quite unmoved. “ I grant that there is something wanting in my character.”

Maria Consuelo had hoped to find a weak point, and had failed, though indeed there were many in the young man’s armor. She was a little annoyed, both at her own lack of judgment, and because it would have amused her to see Orsino in an element so unfamiliar to him as that in which Donna Tullia lived.

“And there is nothing which would induce you to go there ? ” she asked.

“At present, nothing,” Orsino answered coldly.

“ At present; but in the future of all possible possibilities ? ”

“ I shall undoubtedly go there. It is only the unforeseen which invariably happens.”

“ I think so, too.”

“ Of course. I will illustrate the proverb by bidding you good-evening,” said Orsino, laughing as he rose. “ By this time the conviction must have formed itself in your mind that I was never going. The unforeseen happens. I go.” .

Maria Consuelo would have been glad if he had stayed even longer, for he amused and interested her, and she did not look forward with pleasure to the lonely evening she was to spend in the hotel.

“ I am generally at home at this hour,” she said, giving him her hand.

” Then, if you will allow me ? Thanks. Good-evening, madame.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and then Orsino left the room. As he lit his cigarette in the porch of the hotel, he said to himself that he had not wasted his hour, and he was pleasantly conscious of that inward and spiritual satisfaction which every very young man feels when he is aware of having appeared at his best in the society of a woman alone. Youth without vanity is only premature old age, after all.

“ She is certainly more than pretty,” he said to himself, affecting to be critical when he was indeed convinced. “ Her mouth is fabulous, but it is well shaped, and the rest is perfect; no, the nose is insignificant, and one of those yellow eyes wanders a little. These are not perfections. But what does it matter? The whole is charming, whatever the parts may be. I wish she would not go to that horrible fat woman’s tea to-morrow.”

Such were the observations which Orsino thought fit to make to himself, but which by no means represented all that he felt, for they took no notice whatever of that extreme satisfaction at having talked well with Maria Consuelo, which in reality dominated every other sensation just then. He was well enough accustomed to consideration, though his only taste of society had been enjoyed during the winter vacations of the last two years. He was not the greatest match in the Roman matrimonial market for nothing-, and he was perfectly well aware of his advantages in this respect. He possessed that keen, businesslike appreciation of his value as a marriageable man which seems to characterize the young generation of to-day, and he was not mistaken in his estimate. It was made sufficiently clear to him at every turn that he had but to ask in order to receive. But he had not the slightest intention of marrying at one and twenty, as several of his old schoolfellows were doing, and he was sensible enough to foresee that his position as a desirable son-in-law would soon cause him more annoyance than amusement.

Madame d’Aranjuez was doubtless aware that she could not marry him if she wished to do so. She was several years older than he, — Orsino admitted the fact rather reluctantly, — she was a widow, and she seemed to have no particular social position. These were excellent reasons against matrimony, but they were also equally excellent reasons for being pleased with himself at having produced a favorable impression on her.

He walked rapidly along the crowded street, glancing carelessly at the people who passed and at the brilliantly lighted windows of the shops. He went by the door of the club, where he was already becoming known for rather reckless play, and he quite forgot that a number of men were probably spending an hour at the tables before dinner, a fact which would hardly have escaped his memory if he had not been more than usually occupied with pleasant thoughts. He did not need the excitement of baccarat nor the stimulus of brandy and soda, for his brain was already both excited and stimulated, though he was not at once aware of it. But it became clear to him when he suddenly found himself standing before the steps of the Capitol in the gloomy square of the Ara Cœli, wondering what in the world had brought him so far out of his way.

“ What a fool I am ! ” he exclaimed impatiently, as he turned back and walked in the direction of his home. “And yet she told me that I would make a good actor. They say that an actor should never be carried away by his part.”

At dinner, that evening, he was alternately talkative and very silent.

“ Where have you been to-day, Orsino?” asked his father, looking at him curiously.

“ I spent half an hour with Madame d’Aranjuez, and then went for a walk,” answered Orsino, with sudden indifference.

“ What is she like? ” asked Corona.

“ Clever, at least in Rome.” There was an odd, nervous sharpness about the answer.

Old Saracinesca raised his keen eyes without lifting his head and looked hard at his grandson. He was a little bent in his great old age.

“ The boy is in love! ” he exclaimed abruptly, and a laugh that was still deep and ringing followed the words.

Orsino recovered bis self-possession, and smiled carelessly.

Corona was thoughtful during the remainder of the meal.

VII.

The Princess Sant’ Ilario’s early life had been deeply stirred by the great makers of human character, sorrow and happiness. She had suffered profoundly, she had borne her trials with a rare courage, and her reward, if one may call it so, had been very great. She had seen the world and known it well, and the knowledge had not been forgotten in the peaceful prosperity of later years. Gifted with a beauty not equaled, perhaps, in those times, endowed with a strong and passionate nature under a singularly cold and calm outward manner, she had been saved from many dangers by the rarest of commonplace qualities, common sense. She had never passed for an intellectual person; she had never been very brilliant in conversation ; she had even been thought old-fashioned in her prejudices concerning the books she read. But her judgment had rarely failed her at critical moments. Once only she remembered having committed a great mistake, of which the sudden and unexpected consequences had almost wrecked her life. In that case she had suffered her heart to lead her: an innocent girl’s good name had been at stake, and she had rashly taken a responsibility too heavy for love itself to bear. Those days were long past now ; twenty years separated Corona, the mother of four tall sons, from the Corona who had risked all to save poor little Faustina Montevarchi.

But even she knew that a state of such perpetual and unclouded happiness could hardly last a lifetime, and she had forced herself, almost laughing at the thought, to look forward to the day when Orsino must cease to be a boy, and must face the world of strong loves and hates through which most men have to pass, and which all men must have known to be men indeed.

The people whose lives are full of the most romantic incidents are not generally, I think, people of romantic disposition. Romance, like power, will come uncalled for, and those who seek it most are often those who find it least. And the reason is simple enough. The man of heart is not perpetually burrowing in his surroundings for affections upon which his heart may feed, any more than the very strong man is naturally impelled to lift every weight he sees or to fight with every man he meets. The persons whom others call romantic are rarely conscious of being so. They are usually far too much occupied with the one great thought which makes their strongest, bravest, and meanest actions seem perfectly commonplace to themselves. Corona Del Carmine, who had heroically sacrificed herself in her earliest girlhood to save her father from ruin, and who a few years later had risked a priceless happiness to shield a foolish girl, had not in her whole life been conscious of a single romantic instinct. Brave, devoted, but unimaginative by nature, she had followed her heart’s direction in most worldly matters.

She was amazed to find that she was becoming romantic now, in her dreams for Orsino’s future. All sorts of ideas which she would have laughed at in her own youth flitted through her brain from morning till night. Her fancy built up a life for her eldest son which she knew to be far from the possibility of realization, but which had for her a new and strange attraction.

She planned for him the most unimaginable happiness, of a kind which would perhaps have scarcely satisfied his more modern instincts. She saw a maiden of indescribable beauty, brought up in unapproachable perfections, guarded by the all but insuperable jealousy of an ideal home. Orsino was to love this vision, and none other, from the first meeting to the term of his natural life, and was to win her in the face of difficulties such as would have made even Giovanni, the incomparable, look grave. This radiant creature was also to love Orsino, as a matter of course, with a love vastly more angelic than human; but not hastily nor thoughtlessly, lest Orsino should get her too easily, and not value her as he ought. Then she saw the two betrothed, side by side on shady lawns and moonlit terraces, in a perfectly beautiful intimacy such as they would certainly never en joy in the existing conditions of their own society. But that mattered little. The wooing, the winning, and the marrying of the exquisite girl were to make up Orsino’s life, and fifty or sixty years of idyllic happiness were to be the reward of their mutual devotion. Had she not spent twenty such years herself ? Then why should not all the rest be possible ?

The dreams came and went, and she was too sensible not to laugh at them. That was not the youth of Giovanni, her husband, nor of men who even faintly resembled him in her estimation. Giovanni had wandered far, had seen much, and had undoubtedly indulged more than one passing affection before he had been thirty years of age and had loved Corona. Giovanni would laugh, too, if she told him of her vision of two young and beautiful married saints. And his laugh would be more sincere than her own. Nevertheless her dreams haunted her, as they have haunted many a loving mother ever since Althæa plucked from the flame the burning brand that measured Meleager’s life, and smothered the sparks upon it and hid it away among her treasures.

Such things seem foolish, no doubt, in the measure of fact, in the glaring light of our day. The thought is none the less noble. The dream of an untainted love, the vision of unspotted youth and pure maiden, the glory of unbroken faith kept whole by man and wife in holy wedlock, the pride ot stainless name and stainless race, — these things are not less high because there is a sublimity in the strength of a great sin which may lie the closer to our sympathy, as the sinning is the nearer to our weakness.

When old Saracinesca looked up from under his bushy brows and laughed and said that his grandson was in love, he thought no more of what he said than if he had remarked that Orsino’s beard was growing or that Giovanni’s was turning gray. But Corona’s pretty fancies received a shock from which they never recovered, and though she did her best to call them back they lost all their reality from that hour. The plain fact that at one and twenty years the boy is a man, though a very young one, was made suddenly clear to her, and she was faced by another fact still more destructive of her ideals, namely, that a man is not to be kept from falling in love, when and where he is so inclined, by any personal influence whatsoever. She knew that well enough, and the supposition that his first young passion might be for Madame d’Aranjuez was by no means comforting. Corona immediately felt an interest in that lady which she had not felt before, and which was not altogether friendly.

It seemed to her necessary, in the first place, to find out something definite concerning Maria Consuelo, and this was no easy matter. She communicated her wish to her husband, when they were alone that evening.

“ I know nothing about her,”answered Giovanni ; “ and I do not know any one who does. After all, it is of very little importance.”

“ What if he falls seriously in love with this woman ? ”

“ We will send him round the world. At his age that will cure anything. When he comes back, Madame d’ Aranjuez will have retired to the chaos of the unknown out ot which Orsino has evolved her.”

“ She does not look the kind of woman to disappear at the right moment, observed Corona doubtfully.

Giovanni was at that moment supremely comfortable, both in mind and body. It was late. The old prince bad gone to his own quarters, the boys were in bed, and Orsino was presumably at a party or at the club. Sant’ llario was enjoying the deliglit of spending an hour alone in his wife’s society. They were in Corona’s old boudoir, a place full of associations for them both. He did not want to be mentally disturbed. He said nothing in answer to his wife’s remark. She repeated it in a different form.

“ Women like her do not disappear when one does not want them, she said.

“ What makes you think so ? ” inquired Giovanni, with a man’s irritatingindolence when he does not mean to grasp a disagreeable idea.

“ I know it,” Corona answered, resting her chin upon her hand and staring at. the fire.

Giovanni surrendered unconditionally. “ You are probably right, dear. You always are about people.”

“ Well, then you must see the importance of what I say, " said Corona, pushing her victory.

“ Of course, of course,”said Giovanni, squinting at the flames with one eye between his outstretched fingers.

“ I wish you would wake up! ’’ exclaimed Corona, taking the hand in hers and drawing it to her. “ Orsino is probably making love to Madame d’Aranjuez at this very moment.”

“ Then I will imitate him, and make love to you, my dear. I could not be better occupied, and you know it. You used to say I did it very well.”

Corona laughed, in her deep, soft voice.

“ Orsino is like you. That is what frightens me. He will make love too well. Be serious, Giovanni. Think of what I am saying.”

“ Let us dismiss the question, then, for the simple reason that there is absolutely nothing to be done. We cannot turn this good woman out of Rome, and we cannot lock Orsino up in his room. To tell a boy not to bestow his affections in a certain quarter is like ramming a charge into a gun, and then expecting that it will not come out by the same way. The harder you ram it down, the more noise it makes, — that is all. Encourage him, and he may possibly tire of it. Hinder him, and he will become inconveniently heroic.”

“ I suppose that is true,” said Corona.

“ Then at least find out who the woman is, " she added, after a pause.

“ I will try,” Giovanni answered. “ I will even go to the length of spending an hour a day at the club, if that will do any good; and you know how I detest clubs. But if anything whatever is known of her, it will be known there.”

Giovanni kept his word, and expended more energy in attempting to find out something about Madame d’Aranjuez during the next few days than he had devoted to anything connected with society for a long time. Nearly a week elapsed before his efforts met with any success.

He was in the club one afternoon, at an early hour, reading the papers, and not more than three or four other men were present. Among them were Frangipani and Montevarchi, formerly known as Ascanio Bellegra. There was also a certain young foreigner, a diplomatist, who, like Sant’ Ilario, was reading a paper, most probably in search of an idea for the next visit on his list.

Giovanni suddenly came upon a description of a dinner and reception given by Del Ferice and his wife. The paragraph was written in the usual florid style, with a fine generosity in the distribution of titles to unknown persons.

“ The centre of all attraction,” said the reporter, " was a most beautiful Spanish princess, Donna Maria Consuelo d A—z d’A—a, in whose mysterious eyes are reflected the divine fires of a thousand triumphs, and who was gracefully attired in olive-green brocade ” — Oh ! is that it ? ” said Sant’ Ilario aloud, and in the peculiar tone always used by a man who makes a discovery in a daily paper.

“ What is it ? ” inquired Frangipani and Montevarchi in the same breath. The young diplomatist looked up with an air of interrogation.

Sant’ Ilario read the paragraph aloud. All three listened as though the fate of empires depended on the facts reported.

“Just like the newspapers!” exclaimed Frangipani. “ There probably is no such person. Is there, Ascanio? ”

Montevarchi had always been a weak fellow, and was reported to be at present very deep in the building speculations of the day. But there was one point upon which he justly prided himself. He was a superior authority on genealogy. It was his passion, and no one ever disputed his knowledge or decision. He stroked his fair beard, looked out of the window, winked his pale blue eyes once or twice, and then gave his verdict.

“ There is no such person,” he said gravely.

“I beg your pardon, prince,”said the young diplomatist, " I have met her. She exists.”

“ My dear friend,” answered Montevarchi, “ I do not doubt the existence of the woman, as such, and I would certainly not think of disagreeing with you, even if I had the slightest ground for doing so, which, I hasten to say, I have not. Nor, if she is a friend of yours, would I like to say more on the subject, But. I have taken some little interest in genealogy, and I have a modest library — about two thousand volumes, only — consisting solely of works on the subject, all of which I have read, and many of which I have carefully annotated. I need not say that they are all at your disposal, if you should desire to make any researches.”

Montevarchi had much of his murdered father’s manner without the old man’s strength. The young secretary of embassy was rather startled at the idea of searching through two thousand volumes in pursuit of Madame d’ Aranjuez’s identity. Sant’ Ilario laughed.

“ I only mean that I have met the lady,” said the young man. “ Of course you are right. I have no idea who she may really be. I have heard odd stories about her.”

“ Oh, have you ? ” asked Sant’ Ilario, with renewed interest.

“Yes, very odd.” He paused, and looked round the room to assure himself that no one else had entered. “ There are two distinct stories about her. The first is this. They say that she is a South American prima donna, who sang only a few months, at Rio de Janeiro and then at Buenos Ayres. An Italian, who had gone out there and made a fortune, married her from the stage. In coming to Europe, he unfortunately fell overboard, and she inherited all his money. People say that she was the only person who witnessed the accident. The man’s name was Aragno. She twisted it once and made Aranjuez of it, and she turned it again and discovered that it spelled Aragon a That is the first story. It sounds well, at all events. ’ “Very,” returned Sant’ Ilario, with a laugh.

“ A profoundly interesting page in genealogy, if she happens to marry somebody,” observed Montevarchi, mentally noting all the facts.

“What is the other story?” asked Frangipani.

“ The other story is much less concise and detailed. According to this version, she is the daughter of a certain royal personage and a Polish countess. There is always a Polish countess in those stories ! She has never been married. The royal personage has had her educated in a convent, and has sent her out into the wide world with a pretty, fancy name of his own invention, plentifully supplied with money and regular documents referring to her union with the imaginary Aranjuez, and protected by a sort of bodyguard of mutes and duennas who never appear in public. She is, of course, to make a great match for herself, and has come to Rome to do it. That is also a pretty tale.”

“ More interesting than the other,” said Montevarchi. “ These side lights of genealogy, these stray rivulets of royal races, if I may so poetically call them, possess an absorbing interest for the student. I wall make a note of it.”

“ Observe, I do not vouch for the truth of a single word in either story,” said the young man. “ Of the two, the first is the less improbable. I have met her and talked with her, and she is certainly not less than five and twenty years old. She may be more. In any case, she is too old to have been just let out of a convent.”

“ Perhaps she has been loose for some years,” suggested Sant’ Ilario, speaking of her as though she were a dangerous wild animal.

“ We should have heard of her,” objected the other. “ She has the sort of personality which is noticed anywhere, and which makes itself felt.”

“ Then you incline to the belief that she dropped the Signor Aragno quietly overboard in the neighborhood of the equator ? ”

“ The real story may be quite different from either of those I have told you.”

“ And she is a friend of poor old Donna Tullia!” exclaimed Montevarchi regretfully. " I am sorry for that. For the sake of her history I could almost have gone to the length of making her acquaintance.”

“ How the Del Ferice would rave if she could hear you call her ‘ poor old Donna Tullia ’! ” observed Frangipani. " I remember how she danced at the ball, when I came of age.”

“ That was a long time ago, Filippo,” remarked Montevarchi thoughtfully, “ a very long time ago. We were all young once, Filippo ; but Donna Tullia is really fit only to fill a glass case in a museum of natural history now.”

The remark was not original, and had been in circulation some time. But the three men laughed a little, and Montevarchi was much pleased by their appreciation. He and Frangipani began to talk together, and Sant’ Ilario took up his paper again. When the young diplomatist laid his own aside and went out, Giovanni followed him, and they left the club together.

“ Have you any reason to believe that there is anything irregular about this Madame d’Aranjuez ? ” inquired Sant’ Ilario.

“ No. Stories of that kind are generally inventions. She has not been presented at court, but that means nothing here; and there is a doubt about her nationality, but no one has asked her directly about it.”

“ May I ask who told you the stories ? ”

The young man’s face immediately lost all expression.

“ Really, I have quite forgotten,” he said. “ People have been talking about her.”

Sant’ Ilario justly concluded that his companion’s informant was a lady, and probably one in whom the diplomatist was interested. Discretion is so rare that it can easily be traced to its causes. Giovanni left the young man and walked away in the opposite direction, inwardly meditating a piece of diplomacy quite foreign to his nature. He said to himself that he would watch the man in the world, and that it weald be easy to guess who the lady in question was. It would have been clear to any one but himself that he was not likely to learn anything worth knowing, by his present mode of procedure.

“ Gouache,” he said, entering the artist’s studio a quarter of an hour later, “ do you know anything about Madame d’Aranjuez ? ”

“ That is all I know,” Gouache answered, pointing to Maria Consuelo’s portrait, which stood finished upon an easel before him, set in an old frame. He had been touching it when Giovanni entered. " That is all I know, and I do not know that thoroughly. I wish I did. She is a wonderful subject.”

Sant’ Ilario gazed at the picture in silence.

“ Are her eyes really like these ? ” he asked at length.

“ Much finer.”

“ And her mouth ? ”

Much larger,” answered Gouache, with a smile.

“ She is bad,” said Giovanni, with conviction, and he thought of the Signor Aragno.

Women are never bad,” observed Gouache, with a thoughtful air. “ Some are less angelic than others. You need only tell them all so to assure yourself of the fact.”

“ I dare say. What is this person ? French, Spanish, South American ? ”

“ I have not the least idea. She is not French, at all events.”

“Excuse me — does your wife know her ? ”

Gouache glanced quickly at his visitor’s face.

“ No.”

Gouache was a singularly kind man, and he did his best, perhaps for reasons of his own, to convey nothing by the monosyllable beyond the simple negation of a fact. But the effort was not altogether successful. There was an almost imperceptible shade of surprise in the tone which did not escape Giovanni. On the other hand, it was perfectly clear to Gouache that Sant’ Ilario’s interest in the matter was connected with Orsino.

“ I cannot find any one who knows anything definite,” said Giovanni, after a pause.

“ Have you tried Spicca? ” asked the artist, examining his work critically.

“ No. Why Spicca ? ”

“He always knows everything,” answered Gouache vaguely. “ By the way, Saracinesca, do you not think there might be a little more light just over the left, eye ? ”

“ How should I know ? ”

“ You ought to know. What is the use of having been brought up under the very noses of original portraits, all painted by the best masters, and doubtless ordered by your ancestors at a very considerable expense, if you do not know ? ”

Giovanni laughed.

“ My dear old friend,” he said goodhumoredly. “ have you known us nearly five and twenty years without discovering that it is our peculiar privilege to he ignorant without reproach?”

Gouache laughed in his turn.

“You do not often make sharp remarks ; but when you do ! ”

Giovanni left the studio very soon, and went in search of Spicca. It was no easy matter to find the peripatetic cynic on a winter’s afternoon, but Gouache’s remark had seemed to mean something, and Sant’ Ilario saw a faint glimmer of hope in the distance. He knew Spicca’s habits very well, and was aware that when the sun was low he Would certainly turn into one of the many houses where, he was intimate, and spend an hour over a cup of tea. The difficulty lay in ascertaining which particular fireside he would select on that afternoon. Sant’ Ilario hastily sketched a route for himself, and asked the porter at each of his friends’ houses if Spicca had entered. Fortune favored him at last. Spicca was drinking Ids tea with the Marchesa di San Giacinto.

Giovanni paused a moment before the gateway of the palace in which San Giacinto had inhabited a large hired apartment for many years. He did not see much of his cousin now, on account of differences in political opinion, and he had no reason whatever for calling on Flavia, especially as formal New Year’s visits had lately been exchanged. However, as San Giacinto had become a leading authority on questions of landed property in the city, it struck him that he could pretend a, desire to see Flavia’s husband, and make that an excuse for staying a long time, if necessary, in order to wait for him.

He found Flavia and Spicca alone together, with a small tea-table between them. The air was heavy with the smoke of cigarettes, which clung to the Oriental curtains, and hung in clouds about the rare palms and plants. Everything in the San Giacinto house was large, comfortable, and unostentatious. There was not a chair to be seen which might not have held the giant’s frame. San Giacinto was a wonderful judge of what was good. If he paid twice as much as Montevarchi for a horse, the horse turned out to he capable of four times the work. If he bought a picture at a sale, it was discovered to he by some good master, and other people wondered why they had lost courage in the bidding for a trifle of a hundred francs. Nothing ever turned out badly with him, but no success had the power to shake his solid prudence. No one knew how rich he was, but those who had watched him understood that he would never let the world guess at half his fortune. He was a giant in all ways, and he had shown what he could do when he had dominated Flavia, during the first year of their marriage. She had at first been proud of him, but about the time when she would have wearied of another man she discovered that she feared him in a way she certainly did not fear the devil. Yet he had never spoken a harsh word to her in his life. But there was something positively appalling to her in his enormous strength, rarely exhibited, and never without good reason, but always quietly present, as the outline of a vast mountain reflected in a placid lake. Then she found, to her great surprise, that he really loved her, which she had not expected, and at the end of three years he became aware that she loved him, which was still more astonishing. As usual, his investment had turned out well.

At the time of which I am speaking Flavia was a slight, graceful woman of forty years or thereabouts, retaining much of the brilliant prettiness which served her for beauty, and conspicuous always for her extremely bright eyes. She was of the type of women who live to a great age.

She had not expected to see Sant’ Ilario, and as she gave her hand she looked up at him with an air of inquiry. It would have been like him to say that he had come to see her husband, and not herself, for he had no tact with persons whom he did not especially like. There are such people in the world.

“ Will you give me a cup of tea, Flavia ? " he asked, as he sat down, after shaking hands with Spicca.

“ Have you at last heard that your cousin’s tea is good ? ” inquired the latter, who was surprised by Giovanni’s coming.

“ I am afraid it is cold,”said Flavia, looking into the teapot, as though she could discover the temperature by inspection.

“ It is no matter,” answered Giovanni absently.

He was wondering how he could lead the conversation to the discussion of Madame d’Aranjuez.

“ You belong to the swallowers,” observed Spicca, lighting a fresh cigarette. “ Y ou swallow something, no matter what, and you are satisfied.”

“ It is the simplest way ; one is never disappointed.”

“ It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the same way,” said Flavia, with a laugh.

“ Most people do,” answered Spicca viciously.

“ Were you at the Jubilee on the first day ? ” asked Giovanni, addressing Flavia.

“ Of course I was, and you spoke to me.”

“ That is true. By the bye. I saw that excellent Donna Tullia there. I wonder whose ticket she had? ”

“ She had the Princess Befana’s,” said Spicca, who knew everything. “ The old lady happened to be dying, — she always dies at the beginning of the season ; it used to be for economy, but it has become a habit. — and so Del Ferice bought her card of her servant, for his wife.”

“ Who was the lady who sat with her ? ” asked Giovanni, delighted with his own skill.

“You ought to know!” exclaimed Flavia. “ We all saw Orsino take her out. That is the famous, the incomparable Madame d’Aranjuez,— the most beautiful of Spanish princesses, according to to-day’s paper. I dare say you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party ? She is no more Spanish than Alexander the Great ? Is she, Spicca ? ”

“No, she is not Spanish,”said the latter.

“Then what in the world is she?” asked Giovanni impatiently.

“ How should I know ? Of course it is very disagreeable for you.” It was Flavia who spoke.

“ Disagreeable ? How ? ”

“ Why, about. Orsino, of course. Everybody says he is devoted to her.”

“ I wish everybody would mind his and her business,” said Giovanni sharply. “ Because a boy makes the acquaintance of a stranger at a studio ” —

“ Oh ! it was at a studio ? I did not know that.”

“Yes, at Gouache’s. I fancied your sister might have told you that,” said Giovanni, growing more and more irritable, and yet not daring to change the subject lest he should lose some valuable information. “ Because Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one must say that he is in love with her.”

Flavia laughed.

“My dear Giovanni,” she answered, “ let us be frank. I used never to tell the truth under any circumstances, when I was a gill, but Giovanni — my Giovanni — did not like that. Do you know what he did ? He used to cut off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I told, — laughing at me all the time. At the end of the first quarter I positively had not a pair of shoes, and all my gloves had been cleaned twice. He used to keep all the fines in a special pocketbook. If you knew how hard I tried to steal it! But I could not. Then I reformed. There was nothing else to be done, — that or rags. Fancy ! And, do you know, I have grown quite used to being truthful. Besides, it is so original that I pose with it.”

Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her cigarette.

“You do not often come to see me, Giovanni,” she said, “ and, since you are here, I am going to tell you the truth about your visit. You are beside yourself with rage at Orsino’s new fancy, and you want to find out all about this Madame d’Aranjuez. So you came here because we are Whites, and you saw that she had been at the Del Ferice party, and you know that we know them, — and the rest is sung by the organ, as we say when high mass is over. Is that the truth, or not ? ”

“ Approximately,” said Giovanni, smiling in spite of himself.

“ Does Corona cut your allowance when you tell fibs ? ” inquired Flavia. “ No ? Then why say that it is only approximately true ? ”

“ I have my reasons. And you can tell me nothing ? ”

“ Nothing. I believe Spicca knows all about her, but he will not tell what he knows.”

Spicca made no answer to this, and Giovanni determined to outstay him, or rather, to stay until he rose to go, and then go with him. It was tedious work, for he was not a man who could talk against time on all occasions; but he struggled bravely, and Spicca at last got up from his deep chair. They went out together, and stopped, as though by common consent, upon the brilliantly lighted landing of the first floor.

“ Seriously, Spicca,” said Giovanni, “ I am afraid Qrsino is falling in love with this pretty stranger. If you can tell me anything about her, please do so.”

Spicca stared at the wall, hesitated a moment, and then looked straight into his companion’s eyes.

“ Have you any reason to suppose that I, and I especially, know anything about this lady ? ” he asked.

“ No, — except that you know everything.”

“ That is a fable.” Spicca turned from him and began to descend the stairs.

Giovanni followed, and laid a hand upon his arm.

“ You will not do me this service ? ” he asked earnestly.

Again Spicca stopped, and looked at him.

“You and I are very old friends, Giovanni,” he said slowly. “ I am older than you, but we have stood by each other very often, — in places more slippery than these marble steps. Do not let us quarrel now, old friend. When I tell you that my omniscience exists only in the vivid imaginations of people whose tea I like, believe me; and if you wish to do me a kindness, for the sake of old times, do not help to spread the idea that I know everything.”

The melancholy Spicca had never been given to talking about friendship or its mutual obligations. Indeed, Giovanni could not remember having ever heard him speak as he had just, spoken. It was perfectly clear that he knew something very definite about Maria Consuelo, and he probably had no intention of deceiving Giovanni in that respect. But Spicca also knew his man, and he knew that his appeal for Giovanni’s silence would not be vain.

“ Very well,” said Sant.’ Ilario.

They exchanged a few indifferent words before parting, and then Giovanni walked slowly homeward, pondering on the things he had heard that day.

F. Marion Crawford.