CHAPTER II.
“A MAN MUST HAVE A WIFE.”
THE Countess Mont d’Oro and her son Napier sat at dinner together. They rarely spoke on such occasions, and the meal was nearly over before the Countess looked at him inquiringly and said:
“I saw you go over to the Batistelli house this morning. Some business matter, I presume.” After a pause, she asked, “Were you successful?”
“It was connected with my own personal affairs,” replied the Count, curtly.
“I suppose from your answer that you mean it is none of my business.”
“The inference is your own,” was the reply.
Both were silent for a while, then the Countess resumed: “Did you see Vivienne?”
“She was in the house; you can infer again.”
The Countess was cut by the last remark. Her manner of speaking had been pleasant, but there was a tone in her son’s reply that fired her Italian blood.
“I believe I have the most impudent son in Corsica.”
“I am sure that I have the most loving mother in all France,” said the Count, calmly.
To equalise a quarrel, when one of the participants is angry the other should also be angry. It is unfair for one to remain cool, calm, and collected, while the other is worked up to a fury of passion. If two soldiers meet in battle, one with a sword four feet long and the other with one but half that length, the contest is unequal; the one with the long sword keeps the other contestant at a distance, though the latter makes vain attacks upon his well-protected adversary. So in a lingual battle, the one who keeps his temper, who does not allow his voice to rise above an ordinary pitch, is the soldier with the long sword.
It must not be supposed that Countess Mont d’Oro allowed these thoughts to pass through her mind. She replied promptly to her son’s sarcastic allusion to her love for him.
“Why should I love you?” she cried. “Even when a child you had an ungovernable temper, and since you have grown up—I will not say since you became a man—your extravagance, your disregard of my wishes, even the slightest of them—has driven from my heart any love that I might have had for you. I am glad that your father lived long enough to understand you. He did wisely in leaving all to me. I was to make you an allowance at my discretion. I have paid your debts—gambling debts, I suppose they were principally—until my own income is greatly impaired.”
“And why have you been so generous?” asked her son.
“To avoid scandal. I did not wish our family affairs to become a subject for Parisian gossip. I do not care for what is said here in Corsica, but such news travels fast.”
“I presume from what you have said that you intend to cut off my allowance?”
“I do, as soon as you are married to Vivienne Batistelli. You must remember that I am not yet forty—I may marry again, and I do not wish my husband to have a dowerless bride.”
The Count smiled grimly. “It is all right for me to become a pensioner on my wife’s bounty?”
“Under the circumstances, yes,” said the Countess. “She will have enough. She will have all, and it is right she should. The property has been in Pascal’s hands for the past eighteen years, and a man of his disposition has not let any of it slip through his fingers, of that you may be sure. He has enough to set up for himself, and I suppose there are plenty of women who would have him, disagreeable as he is.”
“Why not marry him yourself?” asked the Count. “You would then be placed above all possible fear of want.”
The Countess arose from her chair. She did not speak until she reached the door of the dining-room; then she turned: “It is some time since you asked your last question, but I suppose you would like an answer. Considering my experience as your mother, I have no desire to become your sister-in-law.”
As his mother closed the door Count Napier sprang to his feet and began whistling the melody of a French chanson. “I may have a bad temper, but I think I know where I got it,” he muttered, as he made his way to the stables.
His favorite saddle-horse, Apollo, was soon ready, and making a cut at the stable-boy with his whip to reward him for his tardiness, and bestowing another upon the animal to show him that a master held the reins, he dashed off towards Ajaccio.
When he returned, several hours later, the fire of his mother’s wrath, to a great extent, had burned out. She was in a more complacent mood and asked, naturally: “Where have you been, Napier?”
“Perhaps Apollo could tell you. I really cannot remember.”
He went up to his room.
The night of the same day brought little sleep to the eyes of Vivienne Batistelli. She would doze, and in the half-sleep came unpleasant dreams. A dozen times during the night she was led to the altar by Count Mont d’Oro, but just as the words were to be spoken which would have united their lives forever, he changed into the form of a dragon, or something equally frightful, and she awoke with a scream to find herself in bed, her heart beating violently, and the room filled with shadows which carried almost as much terror to her heart as the visions which she had seen in her dreams.
At last her mental torture became unbearable. She arose and dressed herself. Drawing aside the heavy curtains, she saw that the sun was nearly up. She went into the garden. The dew lay thick upon the grass. She knelt down upon the green carpet. How cool it seemed to her hands, which were burning as with fire. She walked along one of the paths and the cool morning breeze refreshed her. Hearing the sound of a spade against a rock, she turned into a side path.
“It’s early ye are in gettin’ up,” said Terence, the gardener. “Ye may belave me or not, but whin ye turned into the path I thought the sun was up for sure.”
Vivienne could not help smiling. “Ah, Terence, you are a great flatterer, like all of your countrymen. Do you say such pretty things to Snodine, your wife?”
“Well, I did before we wuz married and some time afther, but to spake the truth, I sometimes think that Snodine’s good-nature sun has set and I’m afeared it’ll never come up again.”
“Oh,” said Vivienne, “Snodine is not such a bad wife. She has a sharp tongue, to be sure.”
“Ah, ah, that she has; and if she wud only use it in the garden instid of on me, your brother would not have to buy so many spades.”
Vivienne was not disposed to continue the conversation, and after walking to the end of a long path, made her way back without again coming in contact with Terence. As she approached the house she found that her old nurse, Clarine, was up. She must have seen Vivienne, for she threw open the window of her room, on the ground floor, and gave the young girl a cheery good-morning.
“May I come in?” asked Vivienne.
Clarine ran to open the door, and as Vivienne entered she took the young girl in her arms and kissed her. “Can you come in? You know you can. Whenever you wish to see Clarine, you may always come without the asking. I served your father and your grandfather, and I will serve you as long as I live,” and the old lady made a curtsy to intensify the effect of her words.
“I want to talk with you, Clarine,” said Vivienne. “I am in great trouble.”
“Trouble!” cried Clarine. “There is enough trouble falling upon the house of Batistelli without its being visited upon your innocent head. What is the matter, darling?” and she drew the young girl towards her. “But we cannot talk here. Come to my room, and we will sit down and you can tell me all about it.”
“Why,” exclaimed Vivienne, as they entered the room, “Old Manassa is here.”
“Yes,” said Clarine, “the very minute I am dressed he insists upon coming in and sitting in that arm-chair. I suppose if I gave it to him he would not be so anxious to visit me, but I won’t do it. It belonged to your grandfather. I was taken sick once and he sent the chair to me because it was so comfortable. When I got better he gave it to me and nothing would induce me to part with it, or even let it go out of my sight. But don’t worry about him, Vivienne, for he is sound asleep.”
With her head pillowed upon the breast of her old nurse, who had been a mother to her so far as it lay in her power, Vivienne told of her interview with her brother, and how determined he was that she should marry Count Mont d’Oro.
“Oh, what shall I do, Clarine?”
The old nurse pursed her lips and shook her head wisely. “Become engaged to him. Engagements and marriages are two different things, Vivienne.”
“Oh, I could not do that, Clarine. I could not make a promise that I did not intend to keep.”
“I would not ask you to,” said Clarine. “You can intend to keep it, but circumstances may prevent you.”
Then Vivienne told of the fearful dreams she had had during the night.
“Oh, I can never do it,” she cried. “I will never marry Count Mont d’Oro. They say, do they not, Clarine, that Manuel Della Coscia killed my father?”
“All Corsica believes it,” said Clarine, and she crossed herself reverently.
“Now, listen, Clarine; if the son of Manuel Della Coscia asked my hand in marriage, I would give it to him as soon as to Count Napier.”
Old Manassa had been leaning upon the head of his heavy stick. It fell from his hands to the floor with a crash.
“Why, what was that?” he cried. “Didn’t I hear somebody talking? I thought I heard the name of Manuel Della Coscia.”
“Nonsense, Manassa!” cried Clarine. “You have been at your old trick of dreaming and then waking up and thinking your dream was real. Now, go right to sleep again. You cannot have your breakfast for an hour yet.”
“I am sure he heard everything that we have said,” Vivienne whispered in Clarine’s ear.
“Oh, no, he is always like that, but even if he did hear, I will convince him that he dreamt it.”
“Come into the garden, Clarine. I do not wish to say anything that can be overheard.”
At some distance from the house they sat upon a bench beneath the drooping branches of a tree which formed a natural arbour.
“I have something to tell you, Vivienne,” said Clarine. “I had a dream, too, last night, but there is a good thing about my dreams—they always come true—and it was about you.”
“My fate must have been pleasanter than it is likely to be,” said Vivienne, “judging from your manner.”
“Listen, Vivienne,” said Clarine, “you can judge for yourself. I thought you were betrothed to a man whom you did not love and you were very unhappy; then a stranger came; he was young and handsome and your heart went out to him. He met Count Mont d’Oro and they quarrelled—they fought—the Count was killed and you married the stranger.”
“How foolish, Clarine! But you know they say dreams go by contraries.”
As they walked back to the house, Clarine said: “Take my advice, Vivienne, and tell the Count that you will marry him. You must trust in the One above. Your Heavenly Father doeth all things well—if it is to be, it will be.”
Old Manassa had not been sleeping. He had overheard what had passed between Vivienne and her nurse. Immediately after they had gone into the garden, he made his way to his master’s room. He found Pascal Batistelli alone.
“Ah, this is a sad day for the house of Batistelli,” he cried. “She is unworthy of the name.”
“Why, what has happened now?” asked Pascal.
“I heard her say it—your sister Vivienne.”
“Heard her say what?” cried Pascal. “Why don’t you speak out and not stand mumbling there?”
“I heard her say that she would as soon marry the son of Manuel Della Coscia as give her hand to Count Mont d’Oro. It is true. I heard it. I swear I did.”
Pascal took a silver coin from his purse and threw it towards Manassa.
“I see, you must be out of tobacco; but keep your eyes shut and your ears open and tell me all you hear. Is your gin bottle empty yet?”
“Not quite,” said Manassa.
“I am obliged to you for telling me what you heard,” said Pascal, “but go now; I am busy.”
The old man shambled towards the door. As he went out he muttered to himself: “She is unworthy of the name of Batistelli.”
Some hours later Vivienne was again walking in the garden. She knew that the Count was coming to see her—she knew what he was going to say—she knew what her answer was expected to be. She determined that the interview should not take place within-doors. Since talking with Clarine, she had prayed fervently for Heavenly guidance, and it seemed to her that it would come more quickly, more directly, if she were in the garden with the trees, the flowers, and the birds about her, and the blue sky overhead.
The greater part of Vivienne’s education had been drawn from nature. She had learned little from books or from contact with others. Her life had been circumscribed in many ways, and such a life makes one introspective. The dweller in a large city who has so much to attract, to interest him and take up his time, who gets but a glimpse of the sky between the house-tops, becomes superficial and does little deep thinking; but one who lives in the country, largely apart from his fellow man, who sees the wide expanse of heaven every day, feels as though he were closer to the Great Power—thinks more of the future and looks searchingly into his own heart, seeking to determine his probable fate when his good deeds and bad deeds, his sins of omission and commission, are scanned by the great Judge.
“And how is Mademoiselle Batistelli this beautiful morning?” asked Count Napier.
Vivienne, startled from her reverie, quickly decided that he should not come to the point at once. She knew his forceful manner of speech, and determined not to allow her heart to be carried by storm. She answered:
“I am not well—not sick, but worried. Julien was out all night. What will the end be?”
“Oh, he’ll get married some time and settle down.”
“And who would have him—a drunkard? I should pity her from the bottom of my heart.”
“You look at the matter too seriously,” said the Count. “Most men are drunkards—some with wine, some with women, but more with love. I was talking to your brother Pascal yesterday about our future.”
Vivienne clasped her hands and looked into his face, appealingly.
“We can have no future together, Count Mont d’Oro; I do not love you.”
“Well, as to that,” cried the Count, jauntily, “neither do I love you, but I respect and admire you.”
The appealing look left Vivienne’s face; in its place came an expression of determination.
“I wish to be loved—by my husband.”
“You must have been reading English novels,” said the Count. “In them you will find the word ‘home,’ but we have nothing like it in French. It may be that the word ‘love’ has no exact counterpart in our language. You must be content, as most Frenchwomen are, with the love of your children.”
“No, no,” cried Vivienne. “If they are not the offspring of love, they will have no love. It is too great a risk.”
“We must take risks in this life,” said the Count. “I will take you to Paris with me. You can enjoy yourself there; it is so different from this dull, sleepy place.”
He had tried the old form of temptation. By it Faust had won Marguerite; but Vivienne was made of sterner stuff.
“I care nothing for Paris or its sinful life; your mother has told me of it. I love my home—every stone in this old castle is dear to me, and my heart will always be here.”
“Ah,” said the Count, “I understand you. Your husband must be content to live here and never go to Paris.”
“If he loves me as I shall love him, he will be content to stay here with me.”
Count Napier Mont d’Oro felt sure that his mother intended to cut off his allowance when he became the husband of Vivienne; in fact, she might do so even if that event did not take place. Thrown upon his own resources, he knew his only means of existence would be the gambling-table. He was wild, ungovernable, criminal in many ways, but he did not look forward with unmixed pleasure to a sinful life. He was honest with himself in that he knew he thought more of the rich Batistelli estates than of the fair young girl who bore the name. He thoroughly believed in laissez-faire. His philosophy was very much like that of Clarine; take a step that does not exactly please you and trust that fate will so order your future that you will not be obliged to take another like it.
Apparently dropping conversation on the subject uppermost in their minds, he said: “I am going back to Paris, but for a little while only. I have some business matters there to attend to—I mean to close up. Then I am coming back to Corsica to settle down. After all, I think you are right; Parisian life is like fireworks—there is a snap and a go and a very pretty sight for a few minutes, and then it is all over. But the life of a country gentleman is solid and substantial. What more can a man ask in this world than a faithful and trusting wife and beautiful and loving children? As these pictures pass before my eyes, I know which one is the best and which is better for me, but before I go I wish to be sure of something that will overcome all temptation to stay in Paris, something to bring me back. You know, sometimes the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”
“Your mother,” uttered Vivienne.
“No, yourself,” cried the Count.
“But you do not love me!”
“I have said that I did not, but I will say more—I love no one else.”
Vivienne was in a quandary. What should she do? Her own mind seemed powerless to direct her, and almost in a state of despair she recalled the advice Clarine had given.
Forcing a smile she turned towards the Count. “If I promise to marry you, Count, if before I become yours you see another whom you will love, will you come to me and tell me? No, no, I will not ask that; but if I learn that you do love some one else, it is understood and agreed that the knowledge of that fact will free me from the carrying out of my promise?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Count, “I agree to that willingly; it is but fair that I should.” He took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed it. “This is the bond,” he cried; “you are to be mine. I am the happiest man in Corsica.”
“Do not say that,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to utter those words until I look into your face and say that I am the happiest woman in Corsica.”
Shortly after Vivienne had given her promise to the Count, he made his way to her brother.
“It is all right,” he cried. “It was a hard fight, but my eloquence won; she has promised to be my wife.”
“But when?” asked Pascal.
“Oh, I did not go so far as to fix the date. That is usually left to the lady, you know.”
“But it must be soon,” said Pascal. “There are weighty reasons.”
The Count thought of his mother’s reference to his allowance. “Yes, there are,” he replied. “We must use our combined eloquence to fix the marriage for an early day.”
In the afternoon, while walking in the garden, Pascal met Old Manassa.
“She has promised to marry him. Manassa, you are an old fool. You should have been in your grave long ago.”
The old man straightened up; his eyes flashed. “I shall not die until I see Manuel Della Coscia, who murdered your father, weltering in his own blood.”