PUBLIC announcement was made next day that the King would arrive within the week at his summer palace in Monza—a peaceful town reposing at the end of two rows of stately poplars ten miles long, with a level white road between, that stretch in direct lines from the Venetian Gate. Toward evening a courier in scarlet dashed into the Barbiondi court bearing a message from the King. It concerned the reception and dinner to follow at which their Majesties would honour the subject who had done so much to build up the industries of the realm. The message was a command that Signor Tarsis render at his earliest convenience a list of the persons to be bidden. This was done at once, and in two days the list came back with a line drawn through some of the names and other names added.
“His Majesty directs me to say,” wrote the secretary, “that in view of the fact that a political colour was deducible from the list as it stood, he has made the changes to the end that the assemblage may be representative of all his subjects in the Province of Milan, so far as political complexion is concerned. It appeared that certain elements were overlooked, others conspicuously recognised. Therefore, he has replaced some of the latter with the names of two Republicans, Signor Lingua and Signor Quattrini; one Radical, Signor Parlari, and one leader of the New Democracy, the Honourable Mario Forza. His Majesty directs me to inform you that he will arrive at Palazzo Barbiondi at seven o’clock.”
It was patent to Tarsis that the situation offered no alternative; the man who had come between him and the success he prized above all else must be asked to partake of the hospitality of his house. And it was equally patent to Mario Forza, when he received the invitation, that the royal wish might not be disregarded. He had seen Hera driving on the Bastions; once or twice their eyes had met; he believed that they shared alike a yearning to speak, to have an exchange of confidence—a desire which might not be gratified with honour; but now by the King’s gift this opportunity was to be theirs. It seemed to him a gift eminently worthy of a king. Tarsis did not deem it necessary to acquaint his wife with what had chanced. On the contrary, he decided to take these lovers unawares, to watch them, and satisfy his mind as to a suspicion that had crept into it and was gaining strength.
Probably no man of intelligence in Italy was further from understanding Mario’s political aims, or caring to understand them, than Tarsis. And no one understood them better than the King; he knew that in the leader of the New Democracy he had a stalwart friend, law and order a genuine champion. Mario’s party had frankly accepted the monarchy, convinced that the industrial reforms Italy needed could be accomplished by improving rather than pulling down the existing form of government.
The duty on breadstuffs had been so high that many thousands of mouths found it difficult to get bread. In the past few weeks there had been outbreaks of the people. In towns of middle and southern Italy and Sicily mobs of men and women had busied themselves taking food wherever they could find it. This imitation of the fowls of the air and the beasts of the forest worked well enough for the feeders until the soldiers arrived and the bullets began to whistle. One day the King, who had never relished the campaign against his hungry subjects, issued a decree reducing the duty on breadstuffs. It was submitted to Parliament and passed without speeches for or against.
There was a notion in the heads of the law-makers that if some measure of relief was not adopted the full stomachs might not be able to hold the empty ones at bay. Mario Forza had much to do with inculcating that idea. He proved himself the dangerous man his foes pronounced him by pointing out the peril and the means of averting it. Upon his motion the Chamber remitted taxes on many things that the people needed to support life, and planned public works to give the idle an opportunity to earn food. It voted 100,000 liras to aid the poor, and then, feeling that it had smothered the volcano, adjourned for a fortnight to attend the Turin exposition, leaving the throne and the cabinet to keep an eye on the crater.
It was at this juncture that the King chose to visit the Barbiondi palace. He had shown his sympathy with the suffering by adding to the Parliamentary fund for their relief 150,000 liras from his private purse. Long before the hour for his appearance the Milanese began to assemble, for the most part, it is believed, bent upon giving him an evidence of good will. They gathered about the gates of the palace and along Corso Venezia, through which the royal equipage was to pass. Soon the halls and reception chambers of the house pulsated with the voices and laughter, the rustle and movement, that attend the arrival of guests. A line of carriages set them down at the portico.
In that stream of Lombard aristocracy was Hera’s father, with Donna Beatrice by his side, and many like them—men bearing noble names who owed much to the peasant-born Tarsis. He had swollen their fortunes by casting them for lucrative parts in the drama that had attracted so many gentlemen of quality—the drama of the factory, the bank, the steamship line. Their families made up the fashionable world of Milan. Most of them had grand dwellings in town and villas on the Lakes or in the Brianza; they entertained with radiant hospitality, drove blooded horses, and stirred the dust of country roads with their automobiles. Most of them were willing to forget their titles. They belonged to the group that was fast going away from old ideas; the notions their fathers respected, and which they too once respected, seemed to them absurd and ridiculous.
Hera was gowned in something that shimmered softly like the petals of a tea rose. What happened before the day was over caused the journals to give a more circumstantial account of the reception than they might have done otherwise. One of the chroniclers thus pictured Hera as she stood, Tarsis at her side, receiving the guests, with Heribert and his slashing warriors for a background: “Her deep grey eyes were full of life and expression. She moved with marvellous grace. Her voice was sweet and melodious. Never had anyone seen in the person of one woman so much charm, so much beauty, united with such brightness of intellect. She was graceful without affectation, witty without malice, and captivating to every guest.”
The Honourable Mario Forza was among the last to appear. He came in with the Cardinal, a hale man of sixty, with kindly blue eyes. As they drew near Hera felt her blood ebb and flow and her breath catch. The elder man was the first to be greeted, and while he paid her some hearty compliments Mario stood alone, for Tarsis did not offer his hand. When the Cardinal had moved away, and they were face to face, Hera noted with a sinking heart that the rugged glow had gone from his cheeks, and from his eyes the boyish lustre that had reflected a soul without bitterness.
“It is a pleasure for which I am indebted to His Majesty,” he said, as they clasped hands, and their glances met.
“I am glad to see you again,” she returned, while Tarsis, his back to the oncoming guests, held her and the other in full survey. So intent was he watching them that the Mayor of Milan, a rotund little man, who stood in full regalia waiting to be noticed, was obliged to cough diplomatically once or twice. The hosts turned to receive the Mayor, and Forza, with a ceremonious bow, joined the Cardinal and passed on to mingle with the throng.
The guests walked and chatted or stood in groups, awaiting the coming of the King. There were staff officers of the garrison in gold lace; poor noblemen of leisure and rich ones in trade, both with their ribbons and the latter with jewelled stars of knighthood; municipal dignitaries in showy insignia of office; Senators and Deputies of the several political shades; dowagers plump or scrawny, spangled with gems, and matrons more youthful in smart gowns. Then there were the amusing men and women who did not profess to be anybody in particular, yet the sort that fashionable Milan was glad to have at its receptions.
In time the clatter of tongues filled the broad corridors as well as the great chamber, and resounded cheerfully in the gardens, now rich with the foliage, the blossoms, and fragrance of May. Mario and the Cardinal joined those of the company who had sought the cooler air, where fountains played and magnolias cast their shadows on statuary. A close friendship had grown with the prelate and the statesman. The man of the Church had taken to his heart easily the man of the World whom he found combating a common foe. Once he had said to him, “Caro Forza, the New Democracy is an ally in the campaign for His kingdom.” At the angle of a shaded avenue, they met Hera on the arm of Colonel Rosario. In genuine enthusiasm the Cardinal gave his felicitations on the return of a Barbiondi to the ancestral home, and Mario spoke to her of the beauty of the palace and gardens.
“Colonel Rosario will not agree with you, Signor Forza,” she said. “He deplores it all.”
“Pardon, Donna Hera,” the old soldier protested. “I have not been quoted accurately, as the politicians say. Deplore all? Far from that. In truth, my regret is for only one thing—the restoration.”
“Why?” asked the Cardinal.
“Because, the restoration has taken unto itself the charm of the old place.”
“Indeed?” the prelate inquired, looking up at the scoured and scraped walls. “And has so much been lost in this refinding?”
“Yes, your Eminence,” the soldier assured him, as they walked away together, the man of the sword bemoaning the passage of old Italy and he of the red robe answering that all which is of time must go with time. Thus it fell out that Mario and Hera, standing there at the turn of the path beside the southern wall, for a moment found themselves alone. He approached at once the subject of the marriage that had torn their hearts.
“You said that Colonel Rosario deplored it all,” he began, repeating her words. “I interpret that as an expression of your remorse for what—you have done. I should not refer to the affair but for the lingering hope that other than a sordid motive impelled you. Must you tell me,” he went on, a suggestion of contempt in his tone, “that you broke faith with me because you could not resist the pomp of great wealth—that you preferred it to my love?”
At first, unable to realise that the words were falling from his lips, she stood as one dazed; then came the thought, and in the next instant the delicious certainty, that there had been a misunderstanding; that Mario, of his will, had never surrendered her to another, that he had never put a frigid sentiment of justice above his love for her. But before she could speak he had misread in her first look of bewilderment and in her quick-going breath an acknowledgment of what he hated to believe. He gave voice to his anger in phrases that wronged her immeasurably, yet thrilled her with rapture, for they proved that somehow he had been cheated of her, that he had never put her away, and that after all his was a great passion crying out in glorious wrath.
“It was a hideous crime to wreck two lives,” he exclaimed. “It has wrecked your life; that is the penalty. When you bartered for money all that——”
“Mario, stop,” she said, softly, touching his arm, while her face lit up in anticipation of the joyous message she had for him. “We are the victims of a misunderstanding.”
“Are you not his wife?” he demanded, puzzled by her smile and sparkling eyes.
“Yes; but only in the view of the world,” she told him, yielding to an impulse, and glad in the consciousness that this was so. “Even that I should not have been,” she went on, “but for a message that bore your name. The will of others did not prevail. Ah, no! When I became the wife of Antonio Tarsis it was the will, as I believed, of Mario Forza.”
“Hera!” he exclaimed. “Of what message do you speak?”
“Your despatch from Rome,” she answered, blissful in the conviction that it was not his.
“I sent no message from Rome. I have never sent you a message.”
Hera laughed for sheer joy. “Nor did you receive one from me the night you went away,” she surmised, seeing the hand of Tarsis in it all.
“Yes; I received a message from you.”
“Ah, where?”
“At Rome. It was handed to me by the station-master on my arrival.”
“And you made no answer to that?”
“None was required. It had only three words; but those were enough to make me happy indeed, for they dispelled all fear that your strength might fail at the last.”
“And those three words?”
“You said, ‘All is well.’”
“No; it was not that,” she laughed; and with a gaiety which he understood now, and shared as well, she told him of the message despatched at the request of Tarsis, asking what she should do—keep or break her engagement of marriage. In that moment they forgot the trickery by which he had gained her hand. Enough to know that each in spirit had been true to the promise given and taken in the monastery; that, however great the disaster to their hopes, the power of their love had never lessened. She would have told him more of the events in Villa Barbiondi after his departure for Rome but for Donna Beatrice, who came toward them, her face a picture of vexation.
“His Majesty is expected at any moment,” she informed Hera, with shaking voice; “and you with your husband are to be in readiness to receive him.”
“Yes, Aunt,” she answered. “I will go.”
The three walked together across the garden to the grand portico, up the staircase swarming with guests, and into the Atlantean chamber, where Mario took leave of the others. The company was becoming impatient, for it was the dinner hour in many houses.
“Something of a change from their coop in Via Monte Leone,” remarked a certain Nobody-in-particular, as Hera and her father passed by.
“Yes; and there’s the magic hand that did it,” observed her companion, with a movement of his head toward Donna Beatrice, who was approaching with Tarsis.
“Donna Beatrice! You are right. A noble fisher maiden.”
“Who hooked a golden whale.”
“She has a carriage not shared with other branches of the family now.”
“How is that?”
“Family secret. I’m the only outsider who knows. Some time I may tell—you.”
“Tarsis looks as if he’d like to bite somebody.”
“Old instinct. You know the beginning of his career?”
“Yes; watch-dog in a silk-mill.”
“Time-keeper. I suppose that’s the kind of face he used to pull when a hand turned up late.”
“Perhaps he’ll dock the King for arriving after the whistle has blown.”
“Is there anything that you respect?”
“Nothing but you.”
They laughed and went up to Donna Beatrice and Tarsis to say pleasant things. An orchestra of picked players from La Scala made music, but the hum of talk and the laughter drowned all save the fortissimo attacks. Mario and the Cardinal stood near by that they might hear the quieter passages.
The Nobodies-in-particular continued:
“Do you know, I have an impression that the honey in the moon has curdled.”
“I didn’t know that honey curdled. Still, I’ll waive the point. Why do you think so?”
“Have you detected any sign of sweetness between them?”
“No; but would you have them bill and coo in public?”
“Certainly not. Nor would I have them cat and dog in public.”
“You have a prolific fancy.”
“Oh, of course. It is natural that you, belonging to the blind sex, should look straight at them and see nothing.”
“What was there to see?”
“View one: His melodramatic stare when she gave Forza her hand. I wonder if Tarsis knows anything.”
“Let us revel in a thrill of charity and wonder if there is anything to know.”
“You may. I shall continue to use my eyes and wits.”
“Upon my word, I see nothing sensational in a man looking at his wife.”
“Modest of you, Reni, and considerate. To the pure all things are pure. You were too noble to say it and crush me.”
“I’m afraid I might have done so, only the deuced proverb is always taking another shape in my mind—to the poor all things are forbidden.”
“Is that the reason our Hera forbid you?”
He coloured, but had to join his laugh with hers. “I see that the shared carriage is not the only family secret you are guarding,” he said. “How many people have you kept this one from?”
“I could answer with one word, but will not.”
“The word ‘all’ or the word ‘none’?”
“Think of being so rich that you can ignore money!” was her irrelevant response. “I could tell you what happened to Donna Hera of the Barbiondi not long ago—before her marriage—when she ordered some things at a certain shop, but I will not. It’s a family secret. Now she’s lavishing money on the unfashionable poor.”
“I wish we might go,” he said restively. “I’m hungry. I want my dinner.” He screwed his fists into his eyes and whined like a schoolboy.
“What a savage that fellow Tarsis is, though!”
“Of course. We are all savages under the skin. Come and have some champagne on an empty stomach.”
“Thank you. I’m not savage enough for that.”
In the banquet hall servants stood with folded arms about the waiting board. Long ago they had laid the napery and set the crystal and silver for six persons—the King, the Queen, Don Riccardo, Donna Hera, Donna Beatrice, and Signor Tarsis. By this hour the reception should have been over, the guests’ carriages rolling from the court, and the dinner reaching the period of poisson.
In the kitchen a great composer beat his temples and walked the floor frantically. Had not the symphony been commanded for half-past seven? And at half-past seven the prelude was ready, with all the delicious harmonies that were to follow cooking to such tempo that perfection would attend their serving. And the wines! The golden Chablis, the garnet Margaux, and the sparkling ruby of Asti, the last by his Majesty so beloved—all in the ice, their cooling timed to a minute. Every second that passed made his symphony less fit for the palate of gods and dimmed the lustre of his noble art. Even at this moment the dinner was a wreck. Magnificent devil! What right had a king to ruin a masterpiece!
The people in the street called to one another and made jokes after the manner of a crowd that has waited long enough to have a sense of acquaintance. Soldiers held back the multitude on either side of the Corso, but the space before the palace gates was kept clear by the Civil Guards. At the latter now and then was hurled a coarse jibe, to the delight of many; for the stovepipe hat of their policemen, the black gloves, and the club that is like a walking stick never cease to be comic in the eyes of the Milanese.
La Ferita, the woman of the scarred face, who shook her fist at Tarsis on his wedding day, was in the crowd before the palace. She cried out several times against Tarsis. Once a Civil Guard pushed her back, with a warning that he would take her in charge if she did not hold her tongue.
“Arrest the man in there!” she shouted, pointing toward Palazzo Barbiondi. “He takes the life-blood of children! He works them to death in the factories; pays them fifteen soldi a day! The children die, but he lives on in his grand house! Who pays for it?” she shrieked, facing the crowd and waving her upraised arms. “We do, comrades; we——”
A tirade against his Majesty’s host, within hearing almost of the distinguished man himself, was not to be permitted, and, weary of admonishing her, the Civil Guard lugged La Ferita off to the Questura.
Tarsis and Donna Beatrice went to a window and peered up the Corso, but there was no sign of the royal equipage, no flutter in the crowd to denote its coming. Although the daylight was failing, they could still see the city gate and Sandro in the motor car, stationed there, charged to bear word as soon as the King and Queen were sighted, that the host and hostess might have time to go down to the portico to receive them. To this part of the function Tarsis had looked forward eagerly. He had even rehearsed the scene, going through the act of bowing low to the Queen and offering her his arm, while in imagination his wife, on the King’s arm, led the way up the staircase.
“I was not prepared to see Mario Forza here,” Donna Beatrice said to Tarsis, compressing her lips and patting one hand with her closed fan.
“It is by the King’s wish,” he told her.
“Strange!”
“Oh, no,” he explained. “A political consideration. I hope no accident has prevented his Majesty from coming.”
“It is only that athletic exhibition, I am positive,” she said. “As he is to distribute the prizes I suppose he cannot leave graciously until the bore is at an end. I was at one once. The waits between the events were the chief feature. If there is anything that would delight to keep a king waiting it is an athletic exhibition.”
But Tarsis did not hear. His attention was held by a dialogue at his shoulders between a man who leaned against the lintel and one who stood within the room.
“There are two sorts of women you must not know,” said the nearer man. “They are the women who love you and the women who do not.”
“You are right. I know; I have suffered.”
“You make a mistake to suffer,” the first speaker continued. “If a woman insults you, bow to her. If she strikes you, protect yourself. If she deceives you, say nothing for fear of compromising her. Kill yourself, if you please, but suffer—never!”
“To this point I agree with you,” said his companion: “Some life should pay—yours, hers or his.”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “That, of course, is a matter of taste.”
Tarsis had glanced quickly at the men and turned his back again. Now he stood staring into the rain of the fountain in the court below, his hard face set like stone, preoccupied darkly with what he had heard. So deep was his absorption that he failed to hear Donna Beatrice exclaim that the King was approaching.
“Antonio!” she repeated, rousing him with a touch on his sleeve. “Come, let us find Hera and go down to receive his Majesty.”
He looked out over the throngs far up the Corso, and saw Sandro speeding toward them. In the quick sweep of his eye he noted too, that the soldiers at the Venetian Gate were forming in marching order, leaving the people free to break their lines along the street sides. And as he followed Donna Beatrice from the window he was aware of a changed note in the murmur of the crowds—a note that was not of glad acclaim. In the group near the orchestra were the Cardinal and Hera with an arm about her chum of the Brianza, the little Marchioness of Tramonta, and near them Don Riccardo and Mario Forza. While they listened to the music Donna Beatrice and Tarsis were searching for Hera. Before they came upon her the motor car was panting in the court and Sandro had started up the staircase with his tidings.