take it amiss, or be angry with "my servant," by which she meant herself. I assured her that I was not at all angry--which was true, and then begged her to tell me what the count had wanted. She said he had called to leave me a message--an invitation to dine, I think--and that Scipione, maliciously or ingenuously, had shown him into the room where she was queening it in her borrowed finery.
I guessed there was more. "What had his Excellency to say on your account, my child?" I asked her.
"He thought at first that I was what I seemed, and was most gallant," she replied, to my consternation. "I told him, however, that he was very much mistaken, that I was a poor girl and your servant, playing as I should not. This tickled his Excellency--or so it appeared."
"And he said--what, Virginia?" I was careful to hide from her my discomfort over this foolish business.
Virginia, with what I am sure was perfect innocence of any evil, said, "He was most kind. He praised my looks, and vowed that you were happily served."
"And so I am," I said rather ruefully. "He was right. What next?"
"Next, sir," said this strange girl, "he praised my figure, which he thought was mightily becoming this gown."
"Well, well, and he was right," I admitted. "But did he say nothing more?"
Virginia would not look at me, but I caught the words, "He said that he envied you the arrangements of your household."
"Well?" I asked her.
"And he said that he was sure I was as good as I was good-looking, and gave your honour every satisfaction. And then he gave me a gold piece and a salutation and was going away, when---"
"Well, well? Let me have the whole story."
"I shall vex you--but not more than I was vexed, I assure you. No harm had been done--for you don't suppose that I wanted his money, serving your honour. But just as he was going out what must that daughter of mischief--Scipione's sister--do but blurt out that she had seen me with your honour not near so well dressed at the fair at Prato. The count started and looked very much intrigued. He asked me a score of questions--artfully, you may be sure, as if to idle away the time. But I told him nothing at all, and he presently was tired of working a dry pump. He took his leave, and that Sataness went with him. God knows what she knows! If I come within distance of her I shall drag her tongue out of her throat, I promise you."
I told her not to trouble herself with what could not be helped. I did not see how she could be blamed, and after all the count was my friend and a man of honour. But I relieved my feelings by bestowing upon Master Scipione one of the handsomest drubbings his oily skin had ever received. I little knew then how richly he deserved it; but I found out before long, and then if I could have killed him I am sure I would have done it.
CHAPTER XXV
I PREPARE FOR BLISS
I must return to the natural order of my history, and relate my first interview with Aurelia in order that I may prepare the reader for the last. It was brought about by Father Carnesecchi, to whom I applied for it after my visit to the convent and reception of the note of forgiveness. I had a great respect for the good man, and owed him much for his kindness to me in my hour of need, but, as I never had the knack of concealing my feelings, I could not help showing him, I suppose, that I was aware that my mistress had been a week in Florence without my suspecting it. If I had thought to confuse him by any such reproach-- which I had not--I should have been quickly undeceived.
Father Carnesecchi at once admitted that he had withheld, for what seemed very proper reasons, the fact of Aurelia's arrival. "The poor little lady," he said, "when she had recovered from fatigues which (without being harsh), I must say, were not brought upon her entirely unassisted, developed a very becoming and dutiful state of the soul. I have seldom been more hopeful of a case of conscience. But it is a sensitive plant, the soul of a young and naturally amiable girl; rough blasts may bruise it; even excessive nurture may cause an exuberance of growth and weaken the roots. I do not doubt your real repentance, my Francis--Heaven forbid it me, but I confess I do gravely doubt the expediency of your assuring Donna Aurelia of it otherwise than by a letter which I shall willingly convey to her. May I ask you now--since I stand to you in loco parentis; yes, yes, in loco parentis--how it was that you became acquainted with the fact of her having been a week in the Sienese convent?"
I told him the truth; and if the father was vexed he was not surprised.
"Beware," he said, "of that little parasite. You have a dangerous liking for female society, as I have told you before. Of your two intimacies, I much prefer that of Donna Aurelia for you. There, now, is a girl naturaliter Christiana--but that is characteristic of her nation: the elect city of Mary, indeed, as the pious Gigli has observed in a large volume. Come," he said suddenly, "come, Francis, I will take you to see Donna Aurelia this moment. There shall be no drawbacks to our mutual affection. What do you say?"
I stammered my thanks, shed tears and kissed my director's hands. The acts of the next half-hour were done to a wild and piercing music. I could scarcely breathe, let alone think or speak. I was swept along the streets, I achieved the portal, I achieved the parlour. Pictures of saints, wholly Sienese, reeled from the walls: a great white crucifix dipped and dazzled. Father Carnesecchi, after a time of shrill suspense, came in to fetch me, took me tottering up the stairs. My heart stood still; but the door was open. I blundered in, I saw her again--her lovely childish head, her innocent smile, her melting eyes, her colour of pale rose, her bounty, her fragrance, her exquisite, mysterious charm! Blushes made her divine; she curtseyed deeply to me; I fell upon my knee; and Count Giraldi rose from his seat and performed a graceful salute.
She told me that she freely forgave me an indiscretion natural to my youth and position, whose consequences, moreover, could not have been foreseen by either of us. She said that she was about to return to her husband, who would probably come to Florence to meet her--and she added that she hoped I should resume my studies at the university, and in serious preparation for the future obliterate all traces of the past. At these words, which I am inclined to fancy had been got by rote, she sighed and looked down. I promised her entire obedience in every particular, and growing bolder by her timidity, said that, with the doctor's permission, I should wait upon her at her convenience. Aurelia pressed me to come; and then told me that, thanks to the benevolence of Donna Giulia conveyed to her by the excellency of Count Giraldi, my visit might be made at the Villa San Giorgio at her ladyship's next reception. "I believe, Don Francis, that you know the way thither," she said. Very much affected, I kissed her hand again, and Father Carnesecchi, suggesting that she might be fatigued, took me away. My next visit to her was paid at the Villa San Giorgio, and on that occasion I saw her alone. Count Giraldi was, in fact, at that very hour, engaged with Virginia in my lodgings.
This time I was neither ridiculous nor thought to be so. My lady came into the saloon where I was and ran towards me, begging me not to kneel to her. She resumed for that happy moment at least her old part of guardian angel, sat on the couch by my side, and looking kindly at me from her beautiful eyes, said in the easiest way, "I see very well that you have not been cared for so well in Florence as in Padua. Now you are to be your good and obedient self again and do everything I tell you."
I murmured my long-meditated prayer for forgiveness, making a sad botch of its periods. She put her hand over my mouth.
"Not a word of that hateful affair," she said firmly. "You were absurd, of course, and I was to blame for allowing it; but I could not be angry with such a perfect little poet, and that monster should have known with whom he had to deal. He knows it now, I believe. He knows that a Gualandi of Siena is not at the beck and call of a pig of Padua. When he comes here, he will come in his right senses, you will see."
I begged her to tell me her story; but she said there was little to tell. She had not left Padua, as I had supposed, but had stayed with friends of hers in the hope that what she called the pazzeria of the doctor would be blown away. Finding that he was obstinate, she had gone to Modena, where she lived for a while as companion