to Donna Tullia Mayer. He lost no time in telling
his friends the good news, and before the evening was
over a hundred people had congratulated him.
Donna Tullia, too, appeared in more than usually gay
attire, and smilingly received the expressions of good
wishes which were showered upon her. She was not
inclined to question the sincerity of those who spoke,
for in her present mood the stimulus of a little popular
noise was soothing to her nerves, which had been badly
strained by the excitement of the day. When she
closed her eyes she had evil visions of Temistocle
retreating at full speed down the stairs with his
unearned bribe, or of Del Ferice’s calm, pale
face, as he had sat in her house that afternoon grasping
the precious documents in his hand until she promised
to pay the price he asked, which was herself.
But she smiled at each new congratulation readily
enough, and said in her heart that she would yet become
a great power in society, and make her house the centre
of all attractions. And meanwhile she pondered
on the title she should buy for her husband:
she came of high blood herself, and she knew how such
dignities as a “principe” or a “duca”
were regarded when bought. There was nothing
for it but to find some snug little marquisate—“marchese”
sounded very well, though one could not be called
“eccellenza” by one’s servants; still,
as the daughter of a prince, she might manage even
that. “Marchese”—yes, that
would do. What a pity there were only four “canopy”
marquises—“marchesi del baldacchino”—in
Rome with the rank of princes! That was exactly
the combination of dignities Donna Tullia required
for her husband. But once a “marchese,”
if she was very charitable, and did something in the
way of a public work, the Holy Father might condescend
to make Del Ferice a “duca” in the ordinary
course as a step in the nobility. Donna Tullia
dreamed many things that night, and she afterwards
accomplished most of them, to the surprise of everybody,
and, if the truth were told, to her own considerable
astonishment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“Giovanni, you are the victim of some outrageous
plot,” said old Saracinesca, entering his son’s
room on the following morning. “I have
thought it all out in the night, and I am convinced
of it.”
Giovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in
his hand and a cigar between his lips. He looked
up quietly from his reading.
“I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be,”
he answered; “but it is evident that there is
something at the bottom of this besides Madame Mayer’s
imagination. I will find out.”
“What pleases me especially,” remarked
the old Prince, “is the wonderful originality
of the idea. It would have been commonplace to
make out that you had poisoned half-a-dozen wives,
and buried their bodies in the vaults of Saracinesca;
it would have been banal to say that you were
not yourself, but some one else; or to assert that
you were a revolutionary agent in disguise, and that
the real Giovanni had been murdered by you, who had
taken his place without my discovering it,—very
commonplace all that. But to say that you actually
have a living wife, and to try to prove it by documents,
is an idea worthy of a great mind. It takes one’s
breath away.”