第 七 章 · Chapter Seven

It is with trifling details of court life as insignificant as those

related in the last chapter that we should have to fill up the history

of the next four years. Every spring the Marchesa came with her

daughters to spend a couple of months at the _palazzo_ Sanseverina or on

the property of Sacca, by the bank of the Po; there they spent some very

pleasant hours and used to talk of Fabrizio, but the Conte would never

allow him to pay a single visit to Parma. The Duchessa and the Minister

had indeed to make amends for certain acts of folly, but on the whole

Fabrizio followed soberly enough the line of conduct that had been laid

down for him: that of a great nobleman who is studying theology and does

not rely entirely on his virtues to bring him advancement. At Naples, he

had acquired a keen interest in the study of antiquity, he made

excavations; this new passion had almost taken the place of his passion

for horses. He had sold his English thoroughbreds in order to continue

his excavations at Miseno, where he had turned up a bust of Tiberius as

a young man which had been classed among the finest relics of antiquity.

The discovery of this bust was almost the keenest pleasure that had come

to him at Naples. He had too lofty a nature to seek to copy the other

young men he saw, to wish for example to play with any degree of

seriousness the part of lover. Of course he never lacked mistresses, but

these were of no consequence to him, and, in spite of his years, one

might say of him that he still knew nothing of love: he was all the more

loved on that account. Nothing prevented him from behaving with the most

perfect coolness, for to him a young and pretty woman was always

equivalent to any other young and pretty woman; only the latest comer

seemed to him the most exciting. One of the most generally admired

ladies in Naples had done all sorts of foolish things in his honour

during the last year of his stay there, which at first had amused him,

and had ended by boring him to tears, so much so that one of the joys of

his departure was the prospect of being delivered from the attentions of

the charming Duchessa d'A----. It was in 1821 that, having

satisfactorily passed all his examinations, his director of studies, or

governor, received a Cross and a gratuity, and he himself started out to

see at length that city of Parma of which he had often dreamed. He was

_Monsignore_, and he had four horses drawing his carriage; at the stage

before Parma he took only two, and on entering the town made them stop

outside the church of San Giovanni. There was to be found the costly

tomb of Archbishop Ascanio del Dongo, his great-granduncle, the author

of the Latin genealogy. He prayed beside the tomb, then went on foot to

the _palazzo_ of the Duchessa, who did not expect him until several days

later. There was a large crowd in her drawing-room; presently they were

left alone.

"Well, are you satisfied with me?" he asked her as he flung himself into

her arms; "thanks to you, I have spent four quite happy years at Naples,

instead of eating my head off at Novara with my mistress authorised by

the police."

_THE COURT_

The Duchessa could not get over her astonishment; she would not have

known him had she seen him go by in the street; she discovered him to

be, what as a matter of fact he was, one of the best-looking men in

Italy; his physiognomy in particular was charming. She had sent him to

Naples a devil-may-care young rough-rider; the horsewhip he invariably

carried at that time had seemed an inherent part of his person: now he

had the noblest and most measured bearing before strangers, while in

private conversation she found that he had retained all the ardour of

his boyhood. This was a diamond that had lost nothing by being polished.

Fabrizio had not been in the room an hour when Conte Mosca appeared; he

arrived a little too soon. The young man spoke to him with so apt a

choice of terms of the Cross of Parma that had been conferred on his

governor, and expressed his lively gratitude for certain other benefits

of which he did not venture to speak in so open a fashion, with so

perfect a restraint, that at the first glance the Minister formed an

excellent impression of him. "This nephew," he murmured to the Duchessa,

"is made to adorn all the exalted posts to which you will raise him in

due course." So far, all had gone wonderfully well, but when the

Minister, thoroughly satisfied with Fabrizio, and paying attention so

far only to his actions and gestures, turned to the Duchessa, he noticed

a curious look in her eyes. "This young man is making a strange

impression here," he said to himself. This reflexion was bitter; the

Conte had reached the _fifties_, a cruel word of which perhaps only a

man desperately in love can feel the full force. He was a thoroughly

good man, thoroughly deserving to be loved, apart from his severities as

a Minister. But in his eyes that cruel word _fifties_ threw a dark cloud

over his whole life and might well have made him cruel on his own

account. In the five years since he had persuaded the Duchessa to settle

at Parma, she had often aroused his jealousy, especially at first, but

never had she given him any real grounds for complaint. He believed

indeed, and rightly, that it was with the object of making herself more

certain of his heart that the Duchessa had had recourse to those

apparent bestowals of her favour upon various young _beaux_ of the

court. He was sure, for instance, that she had rejected the offers of

the Prince, who, indeed, on that occasion, had made a significant

utterance.

"But if I were to accept Your Highness's offer," the Duchessa had said

to him with a smile, "how should I ever dare to look the Conte in the

face afterwards?"

"I should be almost as much out of countenance as you. The dear Conte!

My friend! But there is a very easy way out of that difficulty, and I

have thought of it: the Conte would be put in the citadel for the rest

of his days."

At the moment of Fabrizio's arrival, the Duchessa was so beside herself

with joy that she never even thought of the ideas which the look in her

eyes might put into the Conte's head. The effect was profound and the

suspicions it aroused irremediable.

Fabrizio was received by the Prince two hours after his arrival; the

Duchessa, foreseeing the good effect which this impromptu audience would

have on the public, had been begging for it for the last two months;

this favour put Fabrizio beyond all rivalry from the first; the pretext

for it had been that he would only be passing through Parma on his way

to visit his mother in Piedmont. At the moment when a charming little

note from the Duchessa arrived to inform the Prince that Fabrizio

awaited his orders, the Prince was feeling bored. "I shall see," he said

to himself, "a saintly little simpleton, a mean or a sly face." The Town

Commandant had already reported the newcomer's first visit to the tomb

of his archiépiscopal uncle. The Prince saw enter the room a tall young

man whom, but for his violet stockings, he would have taken for some

young officer.

This little surprise dispelled his boredom: "Here is a fellow," he said

to himself, "for whom they will be asking me heaven knows what favours,

everything that I have to bestow. He is just come, he probably feels

nervous: I shall give him a little dose of Jacobin politics; we shall

see how he replies."

_A FIRST AUDIENCE_

After the first gracious words on the Prince's part:

"Well, _Monsignore_," he said to Fabrizio, "and the people of Naples, are

they happy? Is the King loved?"

"Serene Highness," Fabrizio replied without a moment's hesitation, "I

used to admire, when they passed me in the street, the excellent bearing

of the troops of the various regiments of His Majesty the King; the

better classes are respectful towards their masters, as they ought to

be; but I must confess that, all my life, I have never allowed the lower

orders to speak to me about anything but the work for which I am paying

them."

"Plague!" said the Prince, "what a _slyboots_! This is a well-trained

bird, I recognise the Sanseverina touch." Becoming interested, the

Prince employed great skill in leading Fabrizio on to discuss this

scabrous topic. The young man, animated by the danger he was in, was so

fortunate as to hit upon some admirable rejoinders: "It is almost

insolence to boast of one's love for one's King," he said; "it is blind

obedience that one owes to him." At the sight of so much prudence the

Prince almost lost his temper: "Here, it seems, is a man of parts come

among us from Naples, and I don't like _that breed_; a man of parts may

follow the highest principles and even be quite sincere; all the same on

one side or the other he is always first cousin to Voltaire and

Rousseau."

This Prince felt himself almost defied by such correctness of manner and

such unassailable rejoinders coming from a youth fresh from college;

what he had expected never occurred; in an instant he assumed a tone of

good-fellowship and, reverting in a few words to the basic principles of

society and government, repeated, adapting them to the matter in hand,

certain phrases of Fénelon which he had been made to learn by heart in

his boyhood for use in public audiences.

"These principles surprise you, young man," he said to Fabrizio (he had

called him _Monsignore_ at the beginning of the audience, and intended

to give him his _Monsignore_ again in dismissing him, but in the course

of the conversation he felt it to be more adroit, better suited to

moving turns of speech, to address him in an informal and friendly

style). "These principles surprise you, young man. I admit that they

bear little resemblance to the _bread and butter absolutism_" (this was

the expression in use) "which you can read every day in my official

newspaper. . . . But, great heavens, what is the good of my quoting that

to you? Those writers in my newspaper must be quite unknown to you."

"I beg Your Serene Highness's pardon; not only do I read the Parma

newspaper, which seems to me to be very well written, but I hold,

moreover, with it, that everything that has been done since the death of

Louis XIV, in 1715, has been at once criminal and foolish. Man's chief

interest in life is his own salvation, there can be no two ways of

looking at it, and that is a happiness that lasts for eternity. The

words _Liberty_, _Justice_, the _Good of the Greatest Number_, are

infamous and criminal: they form in people's minds the habits of

discussion and want of confidence. A Chamber of Deputies votes _no

confidence_ in what these people call _the Ministry_. This fatal habit

of _want of confidence_ once contracted, human weakness applies it to

everything, man loses confidence in the Bible, the Orders of the Church,

Tradition and everything else; from that moment he is lost. Even upon

the assumption--which is abominably false, and criminal even to

suggest--that this want of confidence in the authority of the Princes by

God _established_ were to secure one's happiness during the twenty or

thirty years of life which any of us may expect to enjoy, what is half a

century, or a whole century even, compared with an eternity of torment?"

And so on.

One could see, from the way in which Fabrizio spoke, that he was seeking

to arrange his ideas so that they should be grasped as quickly as

possible by his listener; it was clear that he was not simply repeating

a lesson.

Presently the Prince lost interest in his contest with this young man

whose simple and serious manner had begun to irritate him.

"Good-bye, _Monsignore_," he said to him abruptly, "I can see that they

provide an excellent education at the Ecclesiastical Academy of Naples,

and it is quite simple when these good precepts fall upon so

distinguished a mind, one secures brilliant results. Good-bye." And he

turned his back on him.

"I have quite failed to please this animal," thought Fabrizio.

"And now, it remains to be seen," said the Prince as soon as he was once

more alone, "whether this fine youngman is capable of passion for

anything; in that case, he would be complete. . . . Could anyone repeat

with more spirit the lessons he has learned from his aunt? I felt I

could hear her speaking; should we have a revolution here, it would be

she that would edit the _Monitore_, as the Sanfelice did at Naples! But

the Sanfelice, in spite of her twenty-five summers and her beauty, got a

bit of a hanging all the same! A warning to women with brains." In

supposing Fabrizio to be his aunt's pupil, the Prince was mistaken:

people with brains who are born on the throne or at the foot of it soon

lose all fineness of touch; they proscribe, in their immediate circle,

freedom of conversation which seems to them coarseness; they refuse to

look at anything but masks and pretend to judge the beauty of

complexions; the amusing part of it is that they imagine their touch to

be of the finest. In this case, for instance, Fabrizio believed

practically everything that we have heard him say; it is true that he

did not think twice in a month of these great principles. He had keen

appetites, he had brains, but he had faith.

The desire for liberty, the fashion and cult of the _greatest good of

the greatest number_, after which the nineteenth century has run mad,

were nothing in his eyes but a heresy which, like other heresies, would

pass away, though not until it had destroyed many souls, as the plague

while it reigns unchecked in a country destroys many bodies. And in

spite of all this Fabrizio read the French, newspapers with keen

enjoyment, even taking rash steps to procure them.

Fabrizio having returned quite flustered from his audience at the

Palace, and having told his aunt of the various attacks launched at him

by the Prince:

"You ought," she told him, "to go at once to see Father Landriani, our

excellent Archbishop; go there on foot; climb the staircase quietly,

make as little noise as possible in the ante-rooms; if you are kept

waiting, so much the better, a thousand times better! In a word, be

_apostolic_!"

"I understand," said Fabrizio, "our man is a Tartuffe."

"Not the least bit in the world, he is virtue incarnate."

"Even after the way he behaved," said Fabrizio in some bewilderment,

"when Conte Palanza was executed?"

_THE ARCHBISHOP_

"Yes, my friend, after the way he behaved: the father of our Archbishop

was a clerk in the Ministry of Finance, a man of humble position, and

that explains everything. Monsignor Landriani is a man of keen,

extensive and deep intelligence; he is sincere, he loves virtue; I am

convinced that if an Emperor Decius were to reappear in the world he

would undergo martyrdom like Polyeuctes in the opera they played last

week. So much for the good side of the medal, now for the reverse: as

soon as he enters the Sovereign's, or even the Prime Minister's

presence, he is dazzled by the sight of such greatness, he becomes

confused, he begins to blush; it is physically impossible for him to say

no. This accounts for the things he has done, things which have won him

that cruel reputation throughout Italy; but what is not generally known

is that, when public opinion had succeeded in enlightening him as to the

trial of Conte Palanza, he set himself the penance of living upon bread

and water for thirteen weeks, the same number of weeks as there are

letters in the name _Davide Palanza_. We have at this court a rascal of

infinite cleverness named _Rassi_, a Chief Justice or Fiscal General,

who at the time of Conte Palanza's death, cast a spell over Father

Landriani. During his thirteen weeks' penance, Conte Mosca, from pity

and also a little out of malice, used to ask him to dinner once and even

twice a week: the good Archbishop, in deference to his host, ate like

everyone else; he would have thought it rebellious and Jacobinical to

make a public display of his penance for an action that had the

Sovereign's approval. But we knew that, for each dinner at which his

duty as a loyal subject had obliged him to eat like everyone else, he

set himself a penance of two days more of bread and water.

"Monsignor Landriani, a man of superior intellect, a scholar of the

first order, has only one weakness: _he likes to be loved_: therefore,

grow affectionate as you look at him, and, on your third visit, shew

your love for him outright. That, added to your birth, will make him

adore you at once. Show no sign of surprise if he accompanies you to the

head of the staircase, assume an air of being accustomed to such

manners: he is a man who was born on his knees before the nobility. For

the rest, be simple, apostolic, no cleverness, no brilliance, no prompt

repartee; if you do not startle him at all, he will be delighted with

you; do not forget that it must be on his own initiative that he makes

you his Grand Vicar. The Conte and I will be surprised and even annoyed

at so rapid an advancement; that is essential in dealing with the

Sovereign."

Fabrizio hastened to the Archbishop's Palace: by a singular piece of

good fortune, the worthy prelate's footman, who was slightly deaf, did

not catch the name _del Dongo_; he announced a young priest named

Fabrizio; the Archbishop happened to be closeted with a parish priest of

by no means exemplary morals, for whom he had sent in order to scold

him. He was in the act of delivering a reprimand, a most painful thing

for him, and did not wish to be distressed by it longer than was

necessary; accordingly he kept waiting for three quarters of an hour the

great-nephew of the Archbishop Ascanio del Dongo.

How are we to depict his apologies and despair when, after having

conducted the priest to the farthest ante-room, and on asking, as he

returned, the man who was waiting _what he could do to serve him_, he

caught sight of the violet stockings and heard the name Fabrizio del

Dongo? This accident seemed to our hero so fortunate that on this first

visit he ventured to kiss the saintly prelate's hand, in a transport of

affection. He was obliged to hear the Archbishop repeat in a tone of

despair: "A del Dongo kept waiting in my ante-room!" The old man felt

obliged, by way of apology, to relate to him the whole story of the

parish priest, his misdeeds, his replies to the charges, and so forth.

"Is it really possible," Fabrizio asked himself as he made his way back

to the _palazzo_ Sanseverina, "that this is the man who hurried on the

execution of that poor Conte Palanza?"

"What is Your Excellency's impression?" Conte Mosca, inquired with a

smile, as he saw him enter the Duchessa's drawing-room. (The Conte would

not allow Fabrizio to address him as Excellency.)

"I have fallen from the clouds; I know nothing at all about human

nature: I would have wagered, had I not known his name, that man

could not bear to see a chicken bleed."

"And you would have won your wager," replied the Conte; "but when he is

with the Prince, or merely with myself, he cannot say no. To be quite

honest, in order for me to create my full effect, I have to slip the

yellow riband of my Grand Cordon over my coat; in plain evening dress he

would contradict me, and so I always put on a uniform to receive him. It

is not for us to destroy the prestige of power, the French newspapers

are demolishing it quite fast enough; it is doubtful whether the _mania

of respect_ will last out our time, and you, my dear nephew, will

outlive respect altogether. You will be simply a fellow-man!"

Fabrizio delighted greatly in the Conte's society; he was the first

superior person who had condescended to talk to him frankly, without

make-believe; moreover they had a taste in common, that for antiquities

and excavations. The Conte, for his part, was flattered by the extreme

attention with which the young man listened to him; but there was one

paramount objection: Fabrizio occupied a set of rooms in the _palazzo_

Sanseverina, spent his whole time with the Duchessa, let it be seen in

all innocence that this intimacy constituted his happiness in life, and

Fabrizio had eyes and a complexion of a freshness that drove the older

man to despair.

For a long time past Ranuccio-Ernesto IV, who rarely encountered a cruel

fair, had felt it to be an affront that the Duchessa's virtue, which was

well known at court, had not made an exception in his favour. As we have

seen, the mind and the presence of mind of Fabrizio had shocked him at

their first encounter. He took amiss the extreme friendship which

Fabrizio and his aunt heedlessly displayed in public; he gave ear with

the closest attention to the remarks of his courtiers, which were

endless. The arrival of this young man and the unprecedented audience

which he had obtained provided the court with news and a sensation for

the next month; which gave the Prince an idea.

He had in his guard a private soldier who carried his wine in the most

admirable way; this man spent his time in the _trattorie_, and reported

the spirit of the troops directly to his Sovereign. Carlone lacked

education, otherwise he would long since have obtained promotion. Well,

his duty was to be in the Palace every day when the strokes of twelve

sounded on the great clock. The Prince went in person a little before

noon to arrange in a certain way the shutters of a _mezzanino_

communicating with the room in which His Highness dressed. He returned

to this _mezzanino_ shortly after twelve had struck, and there found the

soldier; the Prince had in his pocket writing materials and a sheet of

paper; he dictated to the soldier the following letter:

"Your Excellency has great intelligence, doubtless, and it is thanks to

his profound sagacity that we see this State so well governed. But, my

dear Conte, such great success never comes unaccompanied by a little

envy, and I am seriously afraid that people will be laughing a little at

your expense if your sagacity does not discern that a certain handsome

young man has had the good fortune to inspire, unintentionally it may

be, a passion of the most singular order. This happy mortal is, they

say, only twenty-three years old, and, dear Conte, what complicates the

question is that you and I are considerably more than twice that age. In

the evening, at a certain distance, the Conte is charming,

scintillating, a wit, as attractive as possible; but in the morning, in

an intimate scene, all things considered, the newcomer has perhaps

greater attractions. Well, we poor women, we make a great point of this

youthful freshness, especially when we have ourselves passed thirty. Is

there not some talk already of settling this charming youth at our

court, in some fine post? And if so, who is the person who speaks of it

most frequently to Your Excellency?"

_A LETTER_

The Prince took the letter and gave the soldier two scudi.

"This is in addition to your pay," he said in a grim tone. "Not a single

word of this to anyone, or you will find yourself in the dampest dungeon

in the citadel." The Prince had in his desk a collection of envelopes

bearing the addresses of most of the persons at his court, in the

handwriting of this same soldier who was understood to be illiterate,

and never even wrote out his own police reports: the Prince picked out

the one he required.

A few hours later, Conte Mosca received a letter by post; the hour of

its delivery had been calculated, and just as the postman, who had been

seen going in with a small envelope in his hand, came out of the

ministerial palace, Mosca was summoned to His Highness. Never had the

favourite appeared to be in the grip of a blacker melancholy: to enjoy

this at his leisure, the Prince called out to him, as he saw him come

in:

"I want to amuse myself by talking casually to my friend and not working

with my Minister. I have a maddening headache this evening, and all

sorts of gloomy thoughts keep coming into my mind."

I need hardly mention the abominable ill-humour which agitated the Prime

Minister, Conte Mosca della Rovere, when at length he was permitted to

take leave of his august master. Ranuccio-Ernesto IV was a past-master

in the art of torturing a heart, and it would not be unfair at this

point to make the comparison of the tiger which loves to play with its

victim.

The Conte made his coachman drive him home at a gallop; he called out as

he crossed the threshold that not a living soul was to be allowed

upstairs, sent word to the _auditor_ on duty that he might take himself

off (the knowledge that there was a human being within earshot was

hateful to him), and hastened to shut himself up in the great picture

gallery. There at length he could give full vent to his fury; there he

spent an hour without lights, wandering about the room like a man out of

his mind. He sought to impose silence on his heart, to concentrate all

the force of his attention upon deliberating what action he ought to

take. Plunged in an anguish that would have moved to pity his most

implacable enemy, he said to himself: "The man I abhor is living in the

Duchessa's house; he spends every hour of the day with her. Ought I to

try to make one of her women speak? Nothing could be more dangerous; she

is so good to them; she pays them well; she is adored by them (and by

whom, great God, is she not adored?)! The question is," he continued,

raging: "Ought I to let her detect the jealousy that is devouring me, or

not to speak of it?

"If I remain silent, she will make no attempt to keep anything from me.

I know Gina, she is a woman who acts always on the first impulse; her

conduct is incalculable, even by herself; if she tries to plan out a

course in advance, she goes all wrong; invariably, when it is time for

action, a new idea comes into her head which she follows rapturously as

though it were the most wonderful thing in the world, and upsets

everything.

"If I make no mention of my suffering, nothing will be kept back from

me, and I shall see all that goes on. . . .

_NIGHT THOUGHTS_

"Yes, but by speaking I bring about a change of circumstances: I make

her reflect; I give her fair warning of all the horrible things that may

happen. . . . Perhaps she will send him away" (the Conte breathed a sigh

of relief), "then I shall practically have won; even allowing her to be

a little out of temper for the moment, I shall soothe her . . . and a

little ill-temper, what could be more natural? . . . she has loved him

like a son for fifteen years. There lies all my hope: _like a son_ . . .

but she had ceased to see him after his dash to Waterloo; now, on his

return from Naples, especially for her, he is a different man. _A

different man!_" he repeated with fury, "and that man is charming; he

has, apart from everything else, that simple and tender air and that

smiling eye which hold out such a promise of happiness! And those

eyes--the Duchessa cannot be accustomed to see eyes like those at this

court! . . . Our substitute for them is a gloomy or sardonic stare. I

myself, pursued everywhere by official business, governing only by my

influence over a man who would like to turn me to ridicule, what a look

there must often be in mine! Ah! whatever pains I may take to conceal

it, it is in my eyes that age will always shew. My gaiety, does it not

always border upon irony? . . . I will go farther, I must be sincere

with myself; does not my gaiety allow a glimpse to be caught, as of

something quite close to it, of absolute power . . . and

irresponsibility? Do I not sometimes say to myself, especially when

people irritate me: 'I can do what I like!' and indeed go on to say what

is foolish: 'I ought to be happier than other men, since I possess what

others have not, sovereign power in three things out of four . . .?'

Very well, let us be just! The habit of thinking thus must affect my

smile, must give me a selfish, satisfied air. And, how charming his

smile is! It breathes the easy happiness of extreme youth, and engenders

it."

Unfortunately for the Conte, the weather that evening was hot, stifling,

with the threat of a storm in the air; the sort of weather, in short,

that in those parts carries people to extremes. How am I to find space

for all the arguments, all the ways of looking at what was happening to

him which, for three mortal hours on end, kept this impassioned man in

torment? At length the side of prudence prevailed, solely as a result of

this reflexion: "I am in all probability mad; when I think I am

reasoning, I am not, I am simply turning about in search of a less

painful position, I pass by without seeing it some decisive argument.

Since I am blinded by excessive grief, let us obey the rule, approved by

every sensible man, which is called _Prudence_.

"Besides, once I have uttered the fatal word _jealousy_, my course is

traced for me for ever. If on the contrary I say nothing to-day, I can

speak to-morrow, I remain master of the situation." The crisis was too

acute; the Conte would have gone mad had it continued. He was comforted

for a few moments, his attention came to rest on the anonymous letter.

From whose hand could it have come? There followed then a search for

possible names, and a personal judgment of each, which created a

diversion. In the end, the Conte remembered a gleam of malice that had

darted from the eyes of the Sovereign, when it had occurred to him to

say, towards the end of the audience: "Yes, dear friend, let us be

agreed on this point: the pleasures and cares of the most amply rewarded

ambition, even of unbounded power, are as nothing compared with the

intimate happiness that is afforded by relations of affection and love.

I am a man first, and a Prince afterwards, and, when I have the good

fortune to be in love, my mistress speaks to the man and not to the

Prince." The Conte compared that moment of malicious joy with the phrase

in the letter; "It is thanks to your profound sagacity that we see this

State so well governed." "Those are the Prince's words!" he exclaimed,

"in a courtier they would be a gratuitous piece of imprudence; the

letter comes from His Highness."

This problem solved, the faint joy caused by the pleasure of guessing

the solution was soon effaced by the cruel spectre of the charming

graces of Fabrizio, which returned afresh. It was like an enormous

weight that fell back on the heart of the unhappy man. "What does it

matter from whom the anonymous letter comes?" he cried with fury, "does

the fact that it discloses to me exist any the less? This caprice may

alter my whole life," he said, as though to excuse himself for being so

mad. "At the first moment, if she cares for him in a certain way, she

will set off with him for Belgirate, for Switzerland, for the ends of

the earth. She is rich, and besides, even if she had to live on a few

louis a year, what would that matter to her? Did she not admit to me,

not a week ago, that her _palazzo_, so well arranged, so magnificent,

bored her? Novelty is essential to so youthful a spirit! And with what

simplicity does this new form of happiness offer itself! She will be

carried away before she has begun to think of the danger, before she has

begun to think of being sorry for me! And yet I am so wretched!" cried

the Conte, bursting into tears.

He had sworn to himself that he would not go to the Duchessa's that

evening; never had his eyes thirsted so to gaze on her. At midnight he

presented himself at her door; he found her alone with her nephew; at

ten o'clock she had sent all her guests away and had closed her door.

At the sight of the tender intimacy that prevailed between these two

creatures, and of the Duchessa's artless joy, a frightful difficulty

arose before the eyes of the Conte, and one that was quite unforeseen.

He had never thought of it during his long deliberation in the picture

gallery: how was he to conceal his jealousy?

Not knowing what pretext to adopt, he pretended that he had found the

Prince that evening excessively ill-disposed towards him, contradicting

all his assertions, and so forth. He had the distress of seeing the

Duchessa barely listen to him, and pay no attention to these details

which, forty-eight hours earlier, would have plunged her in an endless

stream of discussion. The Conte looked at Fabrizio: never had that

handsome Lombard face appeared to him so simple and so noble! Fabrizio

paid more attention than the Duchessa to the difficulties which he was

relating.

"Really," he said to himself, "that head combines extreme good-nature

with the expression of a certain artless and tender joy which is

irresistible. It seems to be saying: 'Love and the happiness it brings

are the only serious things in this world.' And yet, when one comes to

some detail which requires thought, the light wakes in his eyes and

surprises one, and one is left dumbfoundered.

"Everything is simple in his eyes, because everything is seen from

above. Great God! how is one to fight against an enemy like this? And

after all, what is life without Gina's love? With what rapture she seems

to be listening to the charming sallies of that mind, which is so boyish

and must, to a woman, seem without a counterpart in the world!"

An atrocious thought gripped the Conte like a sudden cramp. "Shall I

stab him here, before her face, and then kill myself?"

He took a turn through the room, his legs barely supporting him, but his

hand convulsively gripping the hilt of his dagger. Neither of the others

paid any attention to what he might be doing. He announced that he was

going to give an order to his servant; they did not even hear him; the

Duchessa was laughing tenderly at something Fabrizio had just said to

her. The Conte went up to a lamp in the outer room, and looked to see

whether the point of his dagger was well sharpened. "One must behave

graciously, and with perfect manners to this young man," he said to

himself as he returned to the other room and went up to them.

He became quite mad; it seemed to him that, as they leaned their heads

together, they were kissing each other, there, before his eyes. "That is

impossible in my presence," he told himself; "my wits have gone astray.

I must calm myself; if I behave rudely, the Duchessa is quite capable,

simply out of injured vanity, of following him to Belgirate; and there,

or on the way there, a chance word may be spoken which will give a name

to what they now feel for one another; and after that, in a moment, all

the consequences.

_CECCHINA_

"Solitude will render that word decisive, and besides, once the Duchessa

has left my side, what is to become of me? And if, after overcoming

endless difficulties on the Prince's part, I go and shew my old and

anxious face at Belgirate, what part shall I play before these people

both mad with happiness?

"Here even what else am I than the _terzo incomodo_?" (That beautiful

Italian language is simply made for love: _Terzo incomodo_, a third

person when two are company.) What misery for a man of spirit to feel

that he is playing that execrable part, and not to be able to muster the

strength to get up and leave the room!

The Conte was on the point of breaking out, or at least of betraying his

anguish by the discomposure of his features. When in one of his circuits

of the room he found himself near the door, he took his flight, calling

out, in a genial, intimate tone: "Good-bye, you two!-- One must avoid

bloodshed," he said to himself.

The day following this horrible evening, after a night spent half in

compiling a detailed sum of Fabrizio's advantages, half in the frightful

transports of the most cruel jealousy, it occurred to the Conte that he

might send for a young servant of his own; this man was keeping company

with a girl named Cecchina, one of the Duchessa's personal maids, and

her favourite. As good luck would have it, this young man was very sober

in his habits, indeed miserly, and was anxious to find a place as porter

in one of the public _institutions_ of Parma. The Conte ordered the man to

fetch Cecchina, his mistress, instantly. The man obeyed, and an hour

later the Conte appeared suddenly in the room where the girl was waiting

with her lover. The Conte frightened them both by the amount of gold

that he gave them, then he addressed these few words to the trembling

Cecchina, looking her straight in the face:

"Is the Duchessa in love with Monsignore?"

"No," said the girl, gaining courage to speak after a moment's silence.

. . . "No, _not yet_, but he often kisses the Signora's hands, laughing,

it is true, but with real feeling."

This evidence was completed by a hundred answers to as many furious

questions from the Conte; his uneasy passion made the poor couple earn

in full measure the money that he had flung them: he ended by believing

what they told him, and was less unhappy. "If the Duchessa ever has the

slightest suspicion of what we have been saying," he told Cecchina, "I

shall send your lover to spend twenty years in the fortress, and when

you see him again his hair will be quite white."

Some days elapsed, during which Fabrizio in turn lost all his gaiety.

"I assure you," he said to the Duchessa, "that Conte Mosca feels an

antipathy for me."

"So much the worse for His Excellency," she replied with a trace of

temper.

This was by no means the true cause of the uneasiness which had made

Fabrizio's gaiety vanish. "The position in which chance has placed me is

not tenable," he told himself. "I am quite sure that she will never say

anything, she would be as much horrified by a too significant word as by

an incestuous act. But if, one evening, after a rash and foolish day,

she should come to examine her conscience, if she believes that I may

have guessed the feeling that she seems to have formed for me, what part

should I then play in her eyes? Nothing more nor less than the _casto

Giuseppe_!" (An Italian expression alluding to the ridiculous part

played by Joseph with the wife of the eunuch Potiphar.)

_UNCERTAINTIES_

"Should I give her to understand by a fine burst of confidence that I am

not capable of serious affection? I have not the necessary strength of

mind to announce such a fact so that it shall not be as like as two peas

to a gross impertinence. The sole resource left to me is a great passion

left behind at Naples; in that case, I should return there for

twenty-four hours: such a course is wise, but is it really worth the

trouble? There remains a minor affair with some one of humble rank at

Parma, which might annoy her; but anything is preferable to the

appalling position of a man who will not see the truth. This course may,

it is true, prejudice my future; I should have, by the exercise of

prudence and the purchase of discretion, to minimise the danger." What

was so cruel an element among all these thoughts was that really

Fabrizio loved the Duchessa far above anyone else in the world. "I must

be very clumsy," he told himself angrily, "to have such misgivings as to

my ability to persuade her of what is so glaringly true!" Lacking the

skill to extricate himself from this position, he grew sombre and sad.

"What would become of me, Great God, if I quarrelled with the one person

in the world for whom I feel a passionate attachment?" From another

point of view, Fabrizio could not bring himself to spoil so delicious a

happiness by an indiscreet word. His position abounded so in charm! The

intimate friendship of so beautiful and attractive a woman was so

pleasant! Under the most commonplace relations of life, her protection

gave him so agreeable a position at this court, the great intrigues of

which, thanks to her who explained them to him, were as amusing as a

play! "But at any moment I may be awakened by a thunderbolt," he said to

himself. "These gay, these tender evenings, passed almost in privacy

with so thrilling a woman, if they lead to something better, she will

expect to find in me a lover; she will call on me for frenzied raptures,

for acts of folly, and I shall never have anything more to offer her

than friendship, of the warmest kind, but without love; nature has not

endowed me with that sort of sublime folly. What reproaches have I not

had to bear on that account! I can still hear the Duchessa d'A----

speaking, and I used to laugh at the Duchessa! She will think that I am

wanting in love for her, whereas it is love that is wanting in me; never

will she make herself understand me. Often after some story about the

court, told by her with that grace, that abandonment which she alone in

the world possesses, and which is a necessary part of my education

besides, I kiss her hand and sometimes her cheek. What is to happen if

that hand presses mine in a certain fashion?"

Fabrizio put in an appearance every day in the most respectable and

least amusing drawing-rooms in Parma. Guided by the able advice of the

Duchessa, he paid a sagacious court to the two Princes, father and son,

to the Princess Clara-Paolina and Monsignore the Archbishop. He met with

successes, but these did not in the least console him for his mortal

fear of falling out with the Duchessa.