"What has that to do with it?"
"You forget--"
Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point out the improbability of a man so mental, so known, so travelled as he was, falling like a school-boy publicly into a sordid adventure. But he stopped, realizing the uselessness of such an explanation. And he could not tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy in a by-street with the old creature from behind the shutter.
"You have made a mistake about me," he said. "But it is of no consequence. Look! There is another goose coming."
He pointed with his cane in the direction of the chatterers near the kiosk.
"It is papa! It is papa!"
"Pardon! I did not recognize--"
The Marchesino got up.
"Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa--it is better than the Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present you."
But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothingness.
"Not now," he said. "I have--"
The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent comprehension at him, and touched his left hand in token of farewell.
"I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May the writer"s saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!"
There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He c.o.c.ked his hat and strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at this little episode--unreasonably vexed. In his friend Doro he now discerned a possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily forgive if he is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro was essentially good-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him, and as it was impossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. He knew, of course, the Neapolitan"s habitual disbelief in masculine virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro"s laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to forbidden pleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted?
Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him the answer to his questionings. And he knew that his vexation arose from the secret apprehension of a future in which he would desire to stand between her and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro certain truths which are universal, not national. Such truths would come ill from one whom the lectured held unclean.
As he walked home to the hotel his vexation grew.
When he was once more in his room he remembered his remark to Hermione, "We shall have many quiet, happy evenings together this summer, I hope,"
and her strange and doubtful reply. And because he felt himself invaded by her doubts he resolved to set out for the island. If he took a boat at once he could be there between six and seven o"clock.
And perhaps he would see the new occupant of the Casa del Mare. Perhaps he would see Peppina.
CHAPTER XVI
"I have come, you see," said Artois that evening, as he entered Hermione"s room, "to have the first of our quiet, happy evenings, about which you were so doubtful."
"Was I?"
She smiled at him from her seat between the big windows.
Outside the door he had, almost with a sudden pa.s.sion, dismissed the vague doubts and apprehensions that beset him. He came with a definite brightness, a strong intimacy, holding out his hands, intent really on forcing Fate to weave her web in accordance with his will.
"We women are full of little fears, even the bravest of us. Chase mine away, Emile."
He sat down.
"What are they?"
She shook her head.
"Formless--or almost. But perhaps that adds to the uneasiness they inspire. To put them into words would be impossible."
"Away with them!"
"Willingly."
Her eyes seemed to be asking him questions, to be not quite satisfied, not quite sure of something.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I wonder if you have it in you to be angry with me."
"Make your confession."
"I have Peppina here."
"Of course."
"You knew--?"
"I have known you as an impulsive for--how many years? Why should you change?"
He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he continued:
"Sometimes you remind me--in spots, as it were--of George Sand."
She laughed, not quite without bitterness.
"In spots, indeed!"
"She described herself once in a book as having "a great facility" for illusions, a blind benevolence of judgment, a tenderness of heart that was inexhaustible--"
"Oh!"
"Wait! From these qualities, she said, came hurry, mistakes innumerable, heroic devotion to objects that were worthless, much weakness, tremendous disappointments."
Hermione said nothing, but sat still looking grave.
"Well? Don"t you recognize something of yourself in the catalogue, my friend?"
"Have I a great facility for illusions? Am I capable of heroic devotion to worthless objects?"