MARIORIE PATTERSON
 
 /.a.yr.
 
 FORTUNATA
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 MARJORIE PATTERSON 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 MCMX1
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1*11. BV HARPER a BROTHERS 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 PUBLISHED FEBRUARY. 191!
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN the intervals of backbitings and scandals the 
 Princess Colibri had yet found time to discover 
 that her niece Fortunata was growing up to be 
 an ignorant young barbarian. Though indolent in 
 nothing else, the drudgery of mental work revolted 
 her. Like most foreign children, she spoke several 
 languages English, French, and German, fluently; 
 also a little Spanish. She had need of solitude; 
 she was lonely only when in a crowd. Her sister 
 Francesca, a commonplace, unattractive child, she 
 avoided. Francesca's flaxen braids, her prominent 
 blue eyes, her nails cut down to the quick, her 
 systematic thumpings of the piano, her conscientious 
 self-instruction, her unimaginative outlook all this 
 was contemptible to Fortunata. 
 
 In the apartments haunted by evil-eyed rats, 
 where mysterious draughts shook the tapestries and 
 the plumed crests of the armor, where the trees of 
 the garden kept tap-rapping on the windows in warn- 
 ing, Fortunata perched on the sill and gave herself up 
 to thought. With her throat stretched out, her face 
 turned up, her eyes fixed on the rafters, she sug- 
 
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 gested a little dog baying ^,t the moon. In thought, 
 she rescued her enemies from flaming houses. Her 
 rivals she saved from beneath the hoofs of trampling 
 horses. All thanks she declined with a simple elo- 
 quence, the mere thought of which brought to her 
 eyes tears of admiration. 
 
 Though pale, she was a healthy child, and was 
 never ill. She wrote her will; so beautifully was it 
 worded that she wept and revelled in emotion. She 
 never enjoyed herself more. She courted the spirits 
 of darkness; she longed to raise the dead; she en- 
 vied Hamlet, who had seen his father's ghost. Next 
 to evoking the devil, she yearned to behold her father, 
 and never went to bed without this impressive invo- 
 cation : ' ' Ugo Constantino d'Estradde Rivallo, spirit 
 of my father, appear! Haunt me this night and re- 
 veal the secrets of the tomb!" But never did any 
 sheeted form arise to stalk about her bed. 
 
 Miss Billford, the governess, a gentle, old English 
 lady belonging to the now extinct type that wore a 
 black bombazine dress and had the "Flight Out of 
 Egypt" depicted on a brooch, grew greatly troubled 
 her eldest pupil had no religion. When Fortunata 
 was eleven and Eugenio, her brother, nine, they de- 
 termined to shake off the shackles of the Church and 
 to become atheists. Antonia, their elder half-sister, 
 was wont to hold forth on her fervent religious feel- 
 ings, but the two children would shrug their shoul- 
 ders, roll up their eyes, puff out their cheeks, and 
 mutely express derision. Although a staunch Epis- 
 copalian and holding all "popery" as fire and brim- 
 stone, nevertheless, Miss Billford, good soul, thought 
 it her duty to go the round of the Catholic churches
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 of Rome, striving to light in her charge some spark 
 of faith with what success can be imagined. 
 
 Fortunata took a craze for reading. She de- 
 voured French, Italian, and English novels; trag- 
 edies, comedies, and poems. She lived these books. 
 She was all the heroines and in love with all the 
 heroes. In the unoccupied bedroom she chose to 
 make her library there was a painting that aroused 
 her imagination. In a wild and sombre garden 
 a young man kissed a stone Sphinx who held 
 him encircled in her savage forepaws. The boy's 
 head was thrown back, and in the shadow of the 
 leaves his eyes gleamed with an ardent and caress- 
 ing light. This painting penetrated Fortunata with 
 sadness. She felt the loss of something wonderful, 
 dimly remembered, the passion of a former life, per- 
 haps, the like of which she would never find again. 
 
 Suddenly, one day, she had a mortifying thought. 
 Here she was thirteen and had never loved! Oh, 
 shameful! Many of Scott's heroines were married 
 by the time they were sixteen. Whom could she 
 love? She considered, and remembered a blond 
 English boy, a friend of Eugenio's, whose cleanly 
 smell of soap and well-cut Eton clothes had charmed 
 her. 
 
 On the Princess's reception day he came to call 
 on Fortunata. The children passed the evening 
 on the stairs, and as the grandees stalked through 
 the hall beneath, they entertained themselves by 
 spitting on the heads of the nobility. Qui n'a pas 
 sa terre promise, son four d'extase et sa fin dans I'exil 
 was Fortunata' s chant for the next month. Her jour 
 d'extase was that remembered Thursday. Her fin 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 dans I' exit followed soon. The Colibri, as the Prin- 
 cess was called, after the Italian fashion, announced 
 that she had decided to send her niece to a French 
 boarding-school. 
 
 "What!" cried Fortunata, in horror. "A Rivallo 
 at a vulgar French pension impossible!" And she 
 strode from the room, dramatic and enraged. The 
 Princess was delighted with such a snobbish spirit. 
 It did not cause her, however, to alter her determina- 
 tion. 
 
 Fortunata's father, Conte Ugo Rivallo, had been 
 killed out hunting while riding across the Campagna, 
 breaking in his horse. He was a typical hero of 
 romance. Of an illustrious Piedmontese family, he 
 was sordidly poor, a gambler, and most unlucky. 
 Of merely moderate intelligence, nevertheless he 
 possessed one. talent the art of living at the ex- 
 pense of his friends, sharing their horses, their wines, 
 their wives. He was of that type beloved by the 
 female novelist charmingly unscrupulous, blond, 
 elegant, with the heroic manner a mingling of the 
 martial and the languid. 
 
 With that first flux of Americans who came to 
 the Continent with the avowed object of exchang- 
 ing their shekels and daughters for a title, had been 
 a respectable New-Yorker, Mr. J. B. Brandelsbury, 
 and with his daughter he had taken up residence at 
 the Hotel Quirinale, in Rome. Annie was fresh 
 from boarding-school though "fresh" is an inad- 
 equate adjective as applied to a being so frail, so 
 anaemic, yet possessed of a peevish prettiness, only 
 precious from its quality of insecurity. 
 
 Rivallo, with the appreciation of opportunity 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 peculiar to men who live by their wits, had seen in 
 Annie Brandelsbury an all-satisfying bride, able to 
 endow him with sums sufficient to indulge his magi- 
 cal spending powers for bank-notes were known to 
 vanish in his hands with Hermann - like rapidity. 
 He followed her about on his foreign, long- toed 
 shoes, his glances eloquent of a languorous ardor ; he 
 waltzed with her to the clanking of his sabre, offered 
 her flowers symbolical of love the rose, the red 
 geranium and brushed across her wrist his blond 
 mustache. "I love him! I adore him! I cannot 
 live without him!" Annie told her father, with the 
 neat enunciation of a mechanical toy. Though 
 staggered by the enormity of the dot, Mr. Brandels- 
 bury resigned, with a less intuitive spirit than that 
 which had accumulated his wealth, his daughter and 
 the better part of his fortune and took ship for 
 New York. 
 
 The Conte brought his wife to that umbrageous 
 palace where he had lived with his sister since her 
 marriage to the Principe Colibri. Too proud to sell 
 his hereditary property near Milan, Rivallo, years 
 before, had locked his gates, never to return. Deso- 
 lation overspread his vineyards and his house fell 
 a pitiable ruin. 
 
 The Palazzo Colibri is one of the marvels of Rome. 
 The gateway faces the Corso Vittorio Emanuele; 
 the court is cool and silent. In the centre thereof 
 is set a circle of melancholy stone lions, through 
 whose jaws streams of water spout into a shallow 
 basin. The palace stands back in shadow. Though 
 of an ornate and wonderful architecture, it is fallen 
 into decay. In the alcoves of the reception-hall 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 pose statues of "Chastity," "Prudence," "Silence," 
 "Modesty," who have all lost a finger, a lip, or a 
 nose. Old Nello, the head servant, was wont to 
 potter every morning about these venerable women, 
 pretending to spruce them up with a feather-duster. 
 The staircase is still a marvel of intricate stonework, 
 though disfigured by a green-and-red matting laid 
 to protect the middle of the stairs. In the rear, in 
 a wilderness of garden, grow laurel and myrtle, the 
 solemn cypress and pungent box. From the facade, 
 the ever-patient saints, the Madonna, and constant 
 cherubim have not given over watching, while the 
 warriors sleep with their spears; monks, too, stand 
 in their niches, wasted by time, wrapt in the in- 
 effable sadness of decay. The Palazzo hears only 
 the murmur ings of its fountain, the challenging of 
 bells whose towers cut the sky and stands, like a 
 senator of ancient Rome who, having far outlived 
 his time, endures at last the blow which must prove 
 fatal, and hides his face in his toga, resigned to the 
 passing of his grandeur and the final dissolution. 
 
 Annie, born to the genial rattle of Fifth Avenue, 
 to the contemplation of plush and gaudy mirrors, 
 was uncharmed by the Palazzo's sinister beauty. 
 She trembled as the doors, swinging apart, revealed 
 her future home, the desolate expanse of hall, the 
 stairs mounting to portentous obscurity, the ban- 
 ners dusty, forgotten, brooding in the shadow, with 
 wings furled like birds of prey grown old on the 
 battle-field. But most her heart quailed at the 
 thought that this roof sheltered her only by per- 
 mission of her sister-in-law, before whom Annie lost 
 color and voice a feeble chirp at best. 
 
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 The Princess Colibri was twenty years her brother's 
 senior; erratic in the extreme, her irregularities of 
 mind displayed themselves in her dress. Never was 
 seen such a conglomeration of styles; such Eliza- 
 bethan ruffs, extravagant turbans, cockatoo feath- 
 ers, bugles, lugubrious hearse-plumes opposed to 
 her Excellency's grotesque face with its spreading 
 features of a comedy mask. A divided opinion 
 reigned as to the Princess. By some she was thought 
 to possess a brilliant mind, though impaired by the 
 eccentricities of genius; by others (and to these she 
 was grateful, as upholding the reputation for which 
 she labored) she was regarded in the light of a 
 malignant, cantankerous harridan. No word they 
 found too bitter harpy, viper, virago yet her 
 Excellency, in truth, was like the rest of women, 
 with possibly a tinge more of vanity, of ambition, 
 of the inflated ego, being obsessed with a longing to 
 figure as a personality. Too intelligent to lay claim 
 to beauty or charm, indifferent to love, she concen- 
 trated her ability on the art of making others ridicu- 
 lous. She pictured herself as a female Swift, whose 
 sarcasm, more venomous than a serpent's tooth, 
 confounded her opponents and brought to shame 
 her imagined oppressors. For years she had said, 
 ' 'Mine is a very vicious tongue; I am a dangerous 
 woman to have as an enemy." Now, with patience, 
 all Rome repeated, " The Colibri has a very vicious 
 tongue; she is a dangerous woman to have as an 
 enemy." It was not alone those who incurred her 
 displeasure, and they were many, but friends if 
 such she may have been said to possess above all, 
 toadies, poor relatives, and dependents, who bore the 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 brunt of her Excellency's caustic humor. The mania 
 for wit had taken such a hold of the Princess that 
 she could no longer say good-morning or hand a tea- 
 cup without making a pun or a bon mot. 
 
 Her Excellency, when a young girl, had married 
 Prince Colibri, a man very much her senior, of a 
 dreary disposition, but of prominence in diplomatic 
 circles. In three, as she considered unwasted, years 
 she talked, scolded, nagged, shocked, and terrified 
 the old gentleman into his grave. Left alone, she 
 became even more of a virago, made enemies left 
 and right, composed satirical pamphlets and bitter 
 poems, which she shipped off to people who hap- 
 pened to displease her. 
 
 Rome is fatalistic. In spite of the Princess's ec- 
 centricities, she still had a large following to tremble 
 at her frown. Her behavior imperilled her standing 
 at court, and, under the plea of illness, she resigned 
 her position as lady-in-waiting to the Queen just 
 in time, so said scandal, to keep herself from be- 
 ing dismissed. In spite, or perhaps because of her 
 tongue, the Princess was kowtowed to in Rome. 
 Every Thursday she held a reception. On that day 
 the palace swarmed with the aristocracy of both 
 factions. The guests thronged in and out of the 
 great hall; the servants, in their faded liveries, 
 served meagre refreshments, or stalked lugubriously 
 about by the light of some few twinkling candles, 
 which in no way dispelled the obscurity of the 
 draughty stretch of rooms. 
 
 Not only because of the persecutions of her sister- 
 in-law, who could not forbear to tease the plaintive 
 Annie, was the Contessa in need of sympathy. She 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 found herself in the trying relationship of step- 
 mother to a ten-year-old girl. Rivallo, when only 
 twenty, had married a young Italian, who, dying, 
 left him a daughter. True type of the child born of 
 a love-match as romantic as ill-fated, Antonia Rivallo 
 had inherited a Southern nature ardent, volcanic, 
 knowing no bounds in affection or hatred. Her 
 friends were without blemish ; those whom she chose 
 to call her enemies, monsters. Growing up in soli- 
 tude, cramming her mind with French and Italian 
 novels, untaught in self-control, Antonia's emotions 
 were so violent as almost to unbalance her mind, 
 her moods alternating from the wildest enthusiasm 
 to the most profound melancholy. At the news 
 that her father, whom she devotedly loved, had got 
 him a wife a stepmother's influence, Antonia's 
 literature had taught her, was devastating to the 
 home she was overswept with despair, locked her- 
 self in her room, and for two days refused to eat or 
 speak. Burning with resentment, she finally emerged 
 and took her place at table. Apprehensive Annie, 
 struggling with the vermicelli, omnipresent in the 
 Roman menu, felt the blazing eyes of her newly 
 acquired stepdaughter and gave up the chase of 
 the limp viand. She asked for nothing more than 
 to live without contention. To Antonia she offered 
 a willing, if tepid, affection, but the sombre girl re- 
 fused all overtures with the manner of a tragedy 
 queen. The timid stepmother was unnerved, and 
 started at the shadow cast in passing by this long, 
 lugubrious child.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 FOUR years had passed between the death of 
 her father and the moment of Fortunata's de- 
 parture for boarding-school four years potent in 
 the framing of her nature, a nature independent, 
 secretive, and, above all, egotistical, for self and for 
 self only. She had been her father's favorite, and 
 he had dragged her with him everywhere to Paris, 
 Venice, Naples, London possessed by the idea that 
 his little daughter brought him luck. His less un- 
 usual children, Eugenio and Francesca, were left 
 to their mother's easy tears. Fortunata was a ca- 
 pable soul, never had she been a baby or a child, but 
 an individual from the moment of her birth. She 
 scorned weakness, and was utterly bored by her 
 plaintive and tear-drowning mother. Her father's 
 pleasures caused him to absent himself for days 
 from his daughter, leaving her to the inhospitable 
 corridors of a hotel and the pastimes of her own in- 
 vention. For her solitary meals into the restaurant 
 she walked undaunted; ordered; re-ordered; sent 
 scornfully away; showed off; made the waiters 
 laugh. Yet by reason of her father's uncertainty in 
 paying his bills, she was not as popular as she might 
 otherwise have been. 
 
 To this world no comet had announced her arrival, 
 yet she was born with the conviction that she was 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 an unusual and talented person. She never showed 
 her conceit, but her ambitions gave her great secret 
 pleasure. In solitude she mapped out for herself 
 a glorious career. First, she was to have been a 
 dancer, and she might have succeeded, for she was 
 agile, graceful, and well-made; next, she burned to 
 be an actress, a second Rachel. Then fame as an 
 author appeared possible, and she wrote a mediaeval 
 romance in six copy-books. Later, in fancy, she 
 became a dramatist. Her works were to be power- 
 ful but immoral they would contain the gloom of 
 an Ibsen and the art of a Maupassant. Her tragedy, 
 as yet in embryo, "Ghosts That Return Not," was 
 played in imagination at the Theatre Frangais. She 
 attended in the President's box, in her best white 
 dress. At the end, to the cries of ' ' Author ! Author !" 
 she appeared upon the stage and bowed low between 
 Sarah Bernhardt and Mounet-Sully. 
 
 A crash in Rivallo's precarious finances about 
 this time caused him, with his daughter and what 
 baggage escaped his creditors, to beat a retreat to 
 the Palazzo Colibri, to urge the protection of his 
 pugnacious sister. With not enough money left to 
 make a genial clinking, he was still as debonair as 
 ever. He waxed his mustache and overtrod his 
 shoes, and threw them away as gayly as before, and 
 on his borrowed hunters aired his martial spurs. 
 Unfortunately, one of these borrowed hunters it was 
 which caused his death, and thereby prevented him 
 from wasting the few remaining dollars of his wife's 
 dowry. Fortunata was moved but little by her 
 father's death; in fact, she experienced a certain 
 pleasurable excitement. She felt herself of added 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 importance. Antonia, Eugenio, and Francesca an- 
 noyed her. They took away from her distinction. 
 She wanted to be the only fatherless child. 
 
 But all that was long ago, and she was now leav- 
 ing for boarding-school. As, years before, she had 
 decreed the departure of Eugenio for England to 
 prepare for Oxford and the advent of Miss Billford, 
 the Princess Colibri had decided upon a French 
 school for her niece. 
 
 "Annie, if you remember," she had said to her 
 sister-in-law, "a sufficient sum was settled by your 
 father on the children for their schooling. When 
 does it begin? Come, decide! Santa Madonna! 
 Are you crying, or is it that your eyes perpetually 
 leak?" 
 
 The Princess had a stilted, high-flown manner of 
 speech, pompous, wearisome in the extreme, and 
 interlarded with smart quotations, coarse speeches, 
 and internal references to mythology. 
 
 At the sound of her Excellency's voice, Annie 
 raised her hands and waved them with the helpless- 
 ness of a drowning person. A rapidly increasing 
 deafness an hereditary disease combined with 
 hypochondria, and her imagined ailments, had caused 
 her to release all hold on life. 
 
 "Oh, it is so easy for some people to decide!" she 
 cried, helplessly; "but I am not used to it! I can't 
 do it! My kind father and dear husband have al- 
 ways decided for me." When the Contessa referred 
 to anybody as "kind" or "dear," they were certain 
 to be either dead or overwhelmed with misfortune. 
 "I know the dear children need to be taught Fran- 
 cesca, is it time for my seven drops? Oh, if their 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 dear father were only here to advise me!" The 
 Contessa had lately discovered in Rivallo countless 
 virtues, until now unsuspected. 
 
 "Very well," announced the Princess, "Fortunata 
 shall go to a pension which I have discovered near 
 Paris." And thither Fortunata went. 
 
 The distinguished Spanish Countess del Santa 
 Cruz, having lost in Spain her husband, her fort- 
 une, and the best part of her reputation, had, 
 with her four talented daughters and one talented 
 son, taken refuge in France, and on the outskirts 
 of Paris bought a dilapidated country house, which 
 she had christened The Terrestrial Paradise and 
 opened as a boarding-school for young ladies. It 
 must be admitted that, in enumerating the famous 
 professors from Paris whose services she had en- 
 gaged, the Countess drew upon her vivid Southern 
 imagination, for these boasted instructors, alas! 
 proved to be her own offspring Margherita, Ferdi- 
 nanda, Pepita, Carolla, and Alfonso. True it is, 
 however, a more versatile group of geniuses never 
 shone. Had a fond mamma written, "I am anxious 
 that my daughter should learn ventriloquism," the 
 trusting mother would have received this reply: 
 "The famed ventriloquist Professor Spinnetti visits 
 us every Wednesday. Your dear daughter," etc. 
 Spinnetti, no doubt, would not have appeared, but 
 his place would have been adequately taken by 
 Carolla or Alfonso, or any one of the glittering con- 
 stellation. 
 
 But if the Countess del Santa Cruz chose to cheat, 
 it was in an elegant manner she seldom lost her 
 temper or raised her voice. 
 
 13
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Behold the property of Madame la Comtesse!" 
 quoth Baptiste, driver of the rickety omnibus bear- 
 ing Fortunata and Miss Billford, as they rolled into 
 the unkempt grounds of The Terrestrial Paradise. 
 At that moment a group of youthful Amazons, 
 in jerseys, darted across the road, pursuing one 
 another at tag. 
 
 "The young ladies are at play," observed Bap- 
 tiste, and he pointed to the presbyttre, where a num- 
 ber of the pupils slept, the house proper being over- 
 crowded. At a turning of the road up loomed the 
 house itself, square and boxlike. They gained the 
 steps; out rushed the Countess, kissed Fortunata 
 on both cheeks, declaring that she was charming, 
 adorable. One was surprised to hear her thin, pip- 
 ing voice issue through so heavy and grizzled a 
 mustache. Now was the turn of the offspring to 
 salute Fortunata fondly on both cheeks, which they 
 accordingly did all, of course, excepting Alfonso. 
 The four young ladies were in their peignoirs, and 
 had their hair streaming down their backs. The 
 strenuous life they led did not allow them time to 
 dress. When visitors came, they excused their at- 
 tire, explaining that they had just washed their 
 hair. 
 
 Fortunata spent a wretched evening. She par- 
 took, with the school, of a miserable supper, served 
 by an old peasant woman in shuffling wooden shoes. 
 The bare dining-room was dimly lit by a few oil 
 lamps that merely served to define the scholars' 
 chewing profiles. ' ' Good-bye, my childhood !" Fort- 
 unata said inwardly "and you, my (iay-dreams, 
 good-bye!"
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Our school days are our happiest" what a false 
 platitude! Childhood has been oversung. With 
 many natures it is a time of loneliness, misunder- 
 standing, and nameless disappointment. Children 
 lack the power of expression. Often a sense of 
 righteous indignation, that flames in the heart and 
 scalds the eyelids, finds vent only in ill-tempered 
 screams. Besides, what an ugly age! Youth that 
 captivates at seventeen is not charming at twelve. 
 To-night the debutante's mouth is comparable to a 
 rose. Four years ago it watered greedily at the 
 name of Suchard or Cailler. To-night she talks 
 prettily of the books mamma won't let her read 
 "Wasn't Guy de Maupassant a Crusader?" The 
 little hypocrite, has she forgot the study hours spent 
 in reading yellow-covered novels disguised as French 
 grammar ? 
 
 What dreary days those were for Fortunata, and 
 how she loathed her studies! She cared nothing for 
 Clovis nor Charlemagne, and an expurgated edition 
 of Gargantua, read aloud while she darned her stock- 
 ings, bored her to death. Her one enjoyment was 
 to assume the role of a female Hamlet, of a dry and 
 caustic humor. She had a large following; she was 
 considered a rare and brilliant spirit. On her thumb 
 she wore a huge signet ring of her father's. She let 
 it clang against her desk, declaring, "It was given 
 to me by a man who loved me to distraction." She 
 entertained her coterie with hair-stirring ghost 
 stories. The few rules there were she systematically 
 broke. All through meals she made hideous faces 
 at Alfonso. He had been greatly smitten with her 
 at first, but under her continued coldness soon trans-
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ferred his affections. She led his mamma, the poor 
 Countess, an awful life. Once, just before the holi- 
 days, Fortunata was discovered trying to smuggle a 
 hat-box into the school. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, what is that?" 
 
 "My summer hat, Countess." 
 
 "Let me see it, ma che'rie." 
 
 Fortunata needs must open the box. It was 
 stuffed to the lid with pralines, and square on the top 
 lay Manon Lescaut. The Countess said but three 
 words: "Je suis brisee!" a vague expression, "I 
 am broken, crushed, smithered to bits." 
 
 For two years Fortunata systematically reduced 
 the Countess to fragments. At first her deviltries 
 aroused a mild amusement, but the last summer of 
 her sojourn she overreached herself. It came about 
 this way. 
 
 The Santa Cruz family had twelve birthdays a 
 year; for not only did they celebrate the days on 
 which they were born, but also the days of the saints 
 after whom they were named, and so systematically 
 had this remarkable family been born and named 
 that one of their birthdays fell on every month of 
 the year. Fortunata was overheard commenting 
 on this coincidence and declaring that for the Count- 
 ess the phenomenon was not unfortunate, in that 
 the scholars' offerings no shops being near took 
 the form of lucre; large sums, too, for who would 
 dare to offer a few beggarly sous to the friends of 
 the Queen Isabella? This one sting of ridicule did 
 Fortunata more harm than all her months of con- 
 stant rebellion. From that day she fell in favor. 
 
 During the last week she had taken to eating 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 walnuts during the chapel service, and had been 
 severely criticised for so unseemly a habit. One 
 never-to-be-forgotten evening some friend prompted 
 her to take a pocketful of nuts to the Countess's 
 deportment class a very solemn ritual when young 
 ladies, sixty English hoydens who spent their morn- 
 ings in languid pursuit of learning and their after- 
 noons beating one another's shin black and blue at 
 hockey, were ranged about the room in white kid 
 gloves. At the moment when the Countess was 
 instructing Miss Ruby Parks, daughter of a Liver- 
 pool coal merchant, in the art of chatting with 
 royalty, one of the offending walnuts went crash 
 under Fortunata's heel. Though intent on her hob- 
 nobbings with the crowned heads of Europe, never- 
 theless the Countess heard the report. She turned 
 upon Fortunata and gave vent to a squelching 
 tirade, spoken in the withering style that only a 
 well-bred woman can affect. For once Fortunata 
 lost her presence of mind ; for once her famous caus- 
 tic humor forsook her; she made but a surly reply. 
 As soon as she had spoken, she was chilled with a 
 sense of defeat. Her following had not giggled! 
 Bitterness unspeakable! They had sided with the 
 Countess. The next two or three days Fortunata's 
 vanity fancied a change in her followers. They no 
 longer gazed upon her with the same stare of inane 
 worship. Napoleon at St. Helena had no more bit- 
 ter sense of defeat. She retired to her room, and 
 in solitude thought out an adequate revenge. On 
 the morrow the Countess meant to celebrate one of 
 her birthdays. Why should not Fortunata present 
 her with an epigram, written in the Colibri's best
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 manner ? Praise be to Heaven for the remembrance 
 of that sour style! Fired with resentment, she then 
 and there composed a doggerel French verse. She 
 had sufficient to say, for, like the precocious child 
 that she was, she had heard all the old Spanish 
 scandals. 
 
 When dawned the eventful morrow, all the school 
 was gathered in the dining-room, and in sailed 
 Madame la Comtesse, to receive her birthday tribute. 
 When came Fortunata's turn "Alas!" she said, "I 
 have nothing to offer but a slight effusion of my 
 muse, dedicated to you, Countess." 
 
 "Read it, my child," said the amiable woman, for 
 though disappointed, she was invariably gracious. 
 
 Outwardly as bold as a lion, Fortunata stood forth, 
 and in a clarion voice she trumpeted these lines: 
 
 "Les chateaux en Espagne, Comtesse, 
 S'eVanouissent 1'orsqu'on vieillit; 
 On perd la sublime jeunesse; 
 On perd le printemps de la vie; 
 On perd 1'amour et la tendresse; 
 On perd 1'amant, on perd 1'ami; 
 On perd enfin tout ce qu'on peut; 
 Et les dents et les cheveux; 
 Mais les chauves dlnent, Dieu merci; 
 On ne perdra jamais I'app6tit." 
 
 Or, to paraphrase freely: 
 
 "Our Spanish castles fade, Madame, 
 As we grow old, as we grow old; 
 Gone is the joy of youth, Madame, 
 
 And life's gay spring, all green and gold. 
 Aye, even love, also, Madame! 
 
 Must have an end, must have an end; 
 18
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Our gallants go their way, Madame, 
 
 And we are left without a friend. 
 'Tis all a losing game, Madame, 
 
 Full many a charm we ill can spare 
 Time's envious maw doth glut, Madame, 
 
 Including both our teeth and hair. 
 But, natheless, be consoled, Madame, 
 
 The cloud has still its lining bright; 
 The bald may dine! Thank God, Madame, 
 
 We do not lose our appetite!" 
 
 There was an ominous, an awful silence; then 
 burst the storm. Terrible was the wrath of Madame 
 la Comtesse, and terrible the words she chose to em- 
 ploy. Although it was to the old spider's loss to 
 release any of the flies she had entangled in her 
 web, she then and there dismissed Fortunata for- 
 ever from her sight. But what did Fortunata care? 
 Once more she basked in the gaze of sixty pairs of 
 wonder-struck eyes. She had regained her aureole! 
 
 After her dismissal, Fortunata wrote to her aunt 
 to send Miss Billford or a servant to bring her home. 
 In spite of her escapade, she was not afraid to face 
 the Princess. She had always been the favorite, 
 and any proof of independence delighted the eccen- 
 tric old woman. It never occurred to Fortunata to 
 conciliate her mother. The Princess Colibri was the 
 only authority the Rivallo children knew. 
 
 Until her escort came Fortunata was reduced to 
 staying in her room, where she still had the means 
 of making herself disagreeable, for the partitions 
 were so thin that her voice could be distinctly heard 
 by any one passing in the corridors. Therefore, from 
 morning to night she sang her epigram ; she droned 
 it like a Gregorian chant. The third day old Nello 
 
 19
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 came to release her and to take her home. At the 
 Palazzo door they were solemnly greeted by the 
 portiere, a species of majordomo, a striking feature 
 of the palace, who received all the visitors' cards 
 and adorned the court-yard with his ornate pres- 
 ence. A gorgeous object was the Princess Coli- 
 bri's portiere, clad in all the colors of the rainbow. 
 He had legs that would be the envy of an English 
 flunky, a cocked hat upon his brow, ambrosial 
 whiskers upon his cheeks, and a commanding staff 
 within his hand. 
 
 "Where is the Princess?" asked Fortunata. 
 
 "Her Excellency is in the garden, Contessina," 
 he replied, addressing her by the title "little 
 Countess" used to distinguish her from her 
 mother, the Contessa. 
 
 Sure enough, in the garden back of the Palazzo, 
 sunning herself on a stone bench amid the sound of 
 church-bells and the penetrating odor of box, Fort- 
 unata found her Excellency sitting in state. She 
 was more gorgeous than an Eastern idol. Upon her 
 head a radiant bird of paradise; behind her, Miss 
 Billford, with an amber-tinted parasol, protecting 
 the glorious fowl from the rays of the sun. At her 
 feet, crouching in the guise of worshippers, her two 
 little pet dogs, Mimi and Ganymede, even fatter 
 and sleeker than in the last holidays. 
 
 "Good-morning, Spindleshanks," was her Excel- 
 lency's greeting. 
 
 "Good-morning, Princess," Fortunata answered, 
 in a hollow voice, for she saw the necessity of play- 
 ing her cards with care. 
 
 "Good -morning, Miss Billford. Good - morning, 
 
 20
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 lovely Mimi and adorable Ganymede. Princess, I 
 shall ask you to excuse Miss Billford. What I have 
 to say is for your private ear." 
 
 "Billford," said the Princess, "leave us. Take 
 my book, my gloves, my parasol. Take .also my 
 little dogs. They have sat too long in the sun. It 
 is vain for you to whistle. You only emit an asth- 
 matic wheeze. No dog, however intelligent, could 
 understand. You will have to carry Mimi and 
 Ganymede. When not annoyed, they are gentle 
 I doubt if they bite you." 
 
 As soon as Miss Billford had taken her departure, 
 timidly bearing off under each arm a fat and pomp- 
 ous little animal, Fortunata's aunt turned to her, 
 and said in an abstracted voice, "Serpent that I 
 have warmed in my bosom, what have you done?" 
 
 "Princess," Fortunata answered, "what should I 
 not have done, without the example that I have 
 had as a child constantly before my eyes of the 
 powers of sarcasm?" Here Fortunata bowed to 
 her Excellency. Then with an art worthy of a 
 courtier she told her story. Her diplomacy was 
 effective. She had said but little when the Princess 
 interrupted : 
 
 "When next I am in Paris I shall go down to this 
 lady's pied a terre, and before I leave her she shall 
 be ventre a terre." And when Fortunata mentioned 
 the English hoydens 
 
 "Pouf!" said her Excellency. "When they read 
 aloud they tremble at sight of an unexpected H. 
 They are the daughters of middle-class merchants, 
 petty shopkeepers; they are unfit companions for 
 you." 
 
 21
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 When Fortunata had finished her discourse and 
 spoken her epigram, never was mentor more de- 
 lighted. Her Excellency crowed for joy. She 
 clapped her hands, she smiled like an ogress. She 
 declared that Fortunata had created a chef d'asuwe, 
 that she herself could have written nothing better, 
 that Fortunata was a joy, a jewel, a poppet; that 
 not only was she clever, brilliant, but that, really, 
 she was getting good-looking. Her Excellency gave 
 Fortunata carte blanche to spend her days as she chose 
 an esprit such as hers needed no schooling. Then, 
 in a final ecstasy, the Colibri stretched up a bare 
 wiry arm, tied at the wrist with a bow, and raising 
 two fingers in the apostolic blessing, she called down 
 from the radiant vault a benediction on Fortunata's 
 talented young head. 
 
 Fortunata's speech had been tactful, and she had 
 expected a measure of success, but she was astounded 
 by the ovation she received.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BEFORE Fortunata's departure for school her 
 half-sister Antonia had made her debut. This 
 girl's wild and melancholy beauty, then the style in 
 Rome, where the type admired alters like the fash- 
 ions, caused her success. Though dark almost to 
 swarthiness, her face had that effulgent power of 
 expression seen only in the women of the South ; her 
 eyes were walls of light; her smile tender and brill- 
 iant; across her face there shifted a play of sun and 
 shadow that gave her, if a trifle crazed, at least a 
 caressing expression. At her first ball she danced 
 twice with the Marchese Dacampagna. In the 
 Griseries de la Valse, of which she had read so 
 much, she smelled the pomade of his mustache and 
 fell ardently in love. In a month she was married 
 to Dacampagna. The Marchese, a Florentine, was 
 not of the oldest nobility, but he possessed large 
 means a rare phenomenon in Italy. He had so- 
 cial aspirations. Rome seemed to him full of pos- 
 sibilities. He decided to live there. The doors of 
 the Palazzo Colibri opened to Antonia again, this 
 time with her husband, for which hospitality the 
 Colibri named and received her price. Her Excel- 
 lency had, among other more assumed failings, a 
 frugal nature. 
 
 The first years of this marriage put the passion 
 
 23
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 of Romeo and Juliet to shame. Alas! these halcyon 
 days were not to last. Antonia discovered that her 
 Romeo, the god of her idolatry, was an ordinary 
 mortal, possessed of those gross faults that revolt a 
 woman essentially sentimental and idealistic. Bit- 
 ter quarrels broke out between the ex-turtle doves. 
 Their bickerings were promoted by the amiable Prin- 
 cess. Antonia fell into a fathomless despair, and 
 turned from her love to the consolations of Mother 
 Church. Santa Maria Maggiore saw her every day. 
 Like all the afflicted of Heaven, she took a dreary 
 satisfaction in her woes; she was apt to say, "Whom 
 the Lord loveth, He chasteneth." The tender Juliet 
 was gone, and in her place was daily to be contem- 
 plated a saintly, edifying, but lugubrious martyr. 
 In spite of Antonia's Medusa-like airs and Lady 
 Macbeth attitudes, evoked by a piece of underdone 
 mutton or by the smell of cooking or by any of the 
 trivialities of life; in spite of her absurdities, exag- 
 gerations, and lack of humor, there was something 
 pathetic and lovable in this woman's nature, some- 
 thing infinitely touching in her need and craving for 
 affection. 
 
 Following Fortunata's return from school, there 
 began for her two years of dolce far niente, of waste- 
 ful, sunlit, unimproving days, hours passed in soli- 
 tude with only her thoughts for companions her 
 thoughts, that no one could share, nor take away! 
 Here were no companions playing at leap-frog. 
 Here was no row of whitewashed cells for piano 
 practice, no dreary little boxes through whose parti- 
 tions each player was heard thumping her individual 
 piece all thundering together in one conglomera- 
 
 24
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 tion of hideous sound. Here the only notes to 
 disturb her reveries were from Francesca, screwed 
 to a music-stool. 
 
 When Eugenio came home from England for the 
 holidays, Fortunata was disappointed. She had 
 hoped to find a congenial spirit, but Eton had sadly 
 narrowed him. He talked of nothing but his boys' 
 clubs and his debating societies. By reason of his 
 lack of entertaining conversation, Fortunata found 
 her brother's company boring in the extreme, and 
 chose in preference the joys of solitude. 
 
 The Countess del Santa Cruz had sometimes sent 
 a few of her lambs, shepherded by one of her daugh- 
 ters, to witness heavy tragedies by Corneille and 
 Racine, wherein dreary people in togas stalked and 
 gesticulated, holding in their hands scrolls of manu- 
 script and bundles of papyrus. Incredibly dull as 
 were these plays, nevertheless Fortunata remem- 
 bered how her heart would beat when from the stage 
 resounded those three primitive knocks, peculiar to 
 the Theatre Frangais, as the signal for the curtain 
 to rise. But now, with the advent of Madame Sarah 
 Bernhardt in Rome, were forgotten the lugubrious 
 Andromaches, Iphigenias, and Medeas, in contem- 
 plating the agonies of the divine actress. The 
 Colibri allowed her niece to attend the theatre when- 
 ever so inclined, on condition that Miss Billford ac- 
 companied her and that Fortunata paid for the 
 tickets. The Princess and Antonia shared a box 
 at both the Argentina and the Costanzi theatres. 
 Fortunata's mother was never with them; busy 
 counting out pills and draining medicine bottles, she 
 had forgotten that one could be happy. Fortunata, 
 
 25
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 not being as yet introduced to society, must needs 
 sit in an orchestra chair, surrounded by the hoi 
 polloi. Miss Billford blushed whenever she under- 
 stoodat "Sapho," "La Cittk Morta," and "Cleo- 
 patra." Between the acts Fortunata craned her 
 neck to see her relatives, resplendent in their box. 
 
 At "La Tosca," given on Tuesday, the fashionable 
 night, the Princess appeared in a glory of green 
 ostrich-plumes, her neck and arms bejewelled with 
 the famous Colibri emeralds. She shone and glit- 
 tered more than any jeweller's window; she was sur- 
 rounded by an escort of old bucks, bravely grinning 
 in the face of death, doddering age, and rheumatism. 
 The Princess was holding forth on Bernhardt's fail- 
 ing powers, and, amid an appreciative tee-heeing, 
 her Excellency nodded her feathery aureole, waved 
 her sparkling arms and gave an imitation of the 
 actress's voice and gestures. 
 
 Antonia had thrown a gauzy veil over the splendor 
 of her shoulders. She too held her court, amid 
 which, alas, Dacampagna was not visible. She took 
 her homage haughtily and sadly, like the Empress 
 Semiramis, rewarding her admirers with a vague 
 smile or an intense murmur. In spite of her so- 
 journs at Santa Maria Maggiore, and her ardent 
 prayers, she had not found the "peace that passeth 
 understanding." For what, kind Heaven, were all 
 these prayers, offerings, and pious distractions, but 
 to win back a most unworthy heart, not worth the 
 possessing, to regain the love, such as it was, of 
 Guido, that fickle Romeo whose unstable fancy had 
 wandered elsewhere ? That Antonia still loved him 
 was due, Guido fancied, to his charms and his mus- 
 
 26
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 tachios. Alas, for his vanity he and his like are 
 worshipped merely because some women possess the 
 talent of knowing how to love. The privilege of hav- 
 ing a heart to give away is costly, and this is why 
 Antonia appeared more tragic than Bernhardt her- 
 self enacting the woes of La Tosca. 
 
 From her brother-in-law, Guido Dacampagna, 
 Fortunata wheedled a riding-horse, a mare, black as 
 night and with nostrils as red as though they had 
 been rouged. Fortunata named the beast Zuleika, 
 after a favorite heroine. 
 
 Early every morning she would order Zuleika 
 saddled and ride out with Nello as her escort. In 
 the freshness of the day the bells were ringing to 
 church, through the streets the devout Carmelites 
 and barefooted Capuchins were strolling to mass. 
 Zuleika in her flight caused seminaries of young 
 priests to scatter right and left. These petticoated 
 boys, like to gaunt, raw-boned peasant women, 
 grinned under their shovel hats to see Zuleika caper 
 by. Through the Corso and the by-streets, out onto 
 the hard Appian Way, past squalid Borghi, where 
 groups of brown imps cheered in derision, past 
 aqueducts and catacombs, out into the vast sun- 
 burnt Campagna. Zuleika rolled her black eyes, 
 gripped the bit between her teeth, and darted like 
 an arrow across the stretch of country. Fortunata 
 would look back and laugh to see Nello and his 
 asthmatic pony left wild-eyed on the horizon. In 
 the sunlit gallops she met parties of hunters with 
 brilliant scarlet coats all the nobility out hunting 
 the fox. But, like a well-trained maiden, she passed 
 unseeing with lowered eyelids. 
 
 27
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 In those days Fortunata was a solitary, dreamy 
 child. In a few weeks, as a result of a visit to the 
 French capital, she became a young lady with Louis 
 XV. heels, who loved the Parisian vanities, the pink 
 pomades, the coquettish clusters of false curls. 
 
 She visited Hall6e, Paquin, Doucet; she coveted 
 the crazy hats of Mesdames Reboux, Roger, and 
 the inspired Alphonsine. She loved the daintiest 
 dinners, the sweetest, the most penetrating per- 
 fumes. Fortunata found that she was born to be 
 comfortable, to appreciate luxury, to have all the 
 pretty things of earth. In the face of her coming 
 campaign for the following winter she was to make 
 her de"but the Princess declared that her favorite 
 niece lacked that artificial chic, the stamp of the 
 world, and hoped that Paris might prove a stimulus. 
 There she knew one was apt to give the body more 
 than a thought. On the way to the French capital, 
 her Excellency held forth on the necessity of un- 
 comfortable shoes, high heels, tight corsets, diet 
 in short, il faut souffrir pour.etre belle. 
 
 "It is all very well to be clean, but, Santa Maria, 
 one needs a little style." 
 
 To all of which Fortunata inclined her blond and 
 pensive head. In the Hotel Grosvenor, Rue Auber 
 Italians when travelling choose small and rather 
 cheap hotels the Princess and Fortunata took up 
 their residence. From morning to night they vis- 
 ited the fountainheads of fashion, and feverishly im- 
 bibed the new modes. The Colibri was intimate 
 with all the artists of the Rue de la Paix. Many 
 were the afternoons passed by the Princess and 
 Fortunata in the sanctum of Mademoiselle Suzanne, 
 
 28
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the arbiter of fashion, the dictator at whose word 
 the vogue of sleeves with puffs passes and that of 
 the leg-o'-mutton shape is ushered in. When Mad- 
 emoiselle Suzanne ceased to wrestle with the inspira- 
 tion of her genius in the creation of Fortunata's 
 coming-out dress, she made herself agreeable relat- 
 ing naughty stories of the demi-mondaines and 
 cocottes of the season. The Colibri, whom no one 
 could accuse of having a refined mind, was moved 
 by these tales to guffaws of horse-laughter. 
 
 Nothing speaks worse for Paris than the genuine 
 admiration, respect, and enthusiasm it tenders to 
 its cocottes and painted tragedies in general. The 
 saleswomen, Mesdemoiselles Eulalie, Marie, Louise, 
 kowtow more obsequiously to a gaudy Jezebel than 
 to the most virtuous, wealthy, brilliant woman of 
 society. Schools for a cynic are these palaces of 
 fashion. A great many women will own to not 
 being as beautiful as Venus; only one in a trillion 
 would care to be thought as wise as Minerva; very 
 few assume a rdle as chaste as that of Diana; but 
 who does not think in her heart that she has a 
 ''style" all her own! Fortunata herself, when skip- 
 ping into new creations, before enthusiastic French 
 saleswomen, blushed with pleasure, though conscious 
 of not looking her best, at ecstatic exclamations 
 "The waist of a sylph!" "The leg of a coryphee!" 
 Many was the useless horror she was wheedled into 
 buying merely because la belle Otero had its mate, or 
 because the notorious la Valliere had ordered its 
 counterpart. 
 
 The Colibri talked with her niece frankly of life 
 and what might be made of it. At the Ritz, every 
 
 29
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 afternoon, she snickered at the world over her tea 
 and Eclairs. 
 
 "That, Fortunata," said the Princess, pointing, 
 ''is a German. See how she stares at my wig and 
 mutters abscheulich! Poor savage, what does she 
 know of dress? Her language proves it. That is 
 an American. I know her by the courage with 
 which she wears that hat. Look at the French- 
 women about us. Their charm is full of contra- 
 diction. Yonder one, with the plover-colored circles 
 about her eyes, might have just flung a faithless 
 lover back his letters, when, in truth, she is only 
 laced too tightly. Over there is a cocotte la Valliere , 
 by -the -way. There she sits in her sables like a 
 fashion-plate out of Le Chic Parisien. But meet her 
 glance and see she has the eyes of a primitive race." 
 
 Fortunata smiled courteously. How my gar- 
 rulous old aunt, she thought, does spout on! 
 
 "But, Fortunata," continued the mentor, "the 
 cocotte has one serious fault she lacks foresight. 
 Until come the horrors of age, she smirks and skips, 
 like those shallow daughters of Sodom and Go- 
 morrah who were conjured in vain to cease clashing 
 their cymbals and piping on their sackbuts and 
 dulcimers, but who in spite of all remonstrance rev- 
 elled in the Tyrian purple, delighted in the grape 
 and kissed the black-bearded warriors of the East." 
 
 The old worldling ceased, held up part of an 
 eclair, and pensively let it slip into her mouth. 
 
 The Princess's remarks were not restricted to the 
 female frequenters of the Ritz. She had kindly de- 
 termined to single out for Fortunata a desirable hus- 
 band. Opportunities of marriage were, therefore, 
 
 30
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 her constant theme. Every man that passed her 
 table was either the Colibri's friend, acquaintance, or 
 more often her enemy. If he were none of these, 
 at least she knew his name, his history, the amount 
 of his income, his debts, his mistress, and the speed 
 of his hunters. A thousand times, in imagination, 
 did her Excellency marry Fortunata to all the 
 Serene Highnesses of the land. 
 
 "That is the Prince Raoul de la Tour Bichelle!" 
 cried the Princess, one day, pointing to a tripping 
 old beau in a buff waistcoat. "He is as old as 
 Methuselah, rich as Croesus, and wicked as Silenus. 
 If he comes to Rome, I am determined you shall 
 marry him. And why should you not ? More won- 
 derful things have happened. Did not Esther be- 
 come the queen of Ahasuerus?" 
 
 Thrice blessed was Fortunata in her instructress. 
 
 She did not depend upon her aunt alone to make 
 of her an accomplished woman. She determined by 
 mere force of will to grow pretty. She had narrow 
 eyes to combat and irregular features. Her face, 
 though vivid, had not one curve of the divine 
 beauty which she so worshipped. She began with 
 her hair. Her aching arms, held above her head 
 by the hour, learned to wave, to curl, to undu- 
 late. She took to cold cream and almond washes, 
 and the rouge-pot was with her always. She paced 
 the apartment, balancing on her head the waste- 
 paper basket, thus hoping to attain a smooth and 
 sinuous gait like that of the Eastern women. To 
 gain a waist, she banted, very nearly starved, and 
 had she not possessed the sweetest of tempers 
 would have grown unbearably peevish. 
 
 3 1
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The Princess turned toward Italy, and started 
 with her niece for Rome. Fortunata was altered 
 beyond recognition, though her transformation was 
 no more remarkable than those revolutions of char- 
 acter which we constantly witness. The engines 
 hooted a warning, the fields ran past, the telegraph- 
 posts leaped by, and, breathless, gasping, hysterical, 
 the train sobbed into the station at Rome. Fort- 
 unata, balancing on her stilts of heels, directed the 
 placing of her trunks and much-becounted hat- 
 boxes, then sedately entered the omnibus which 
 had been sent to meet them. She speculated on the 
 bobbing of one of her Excellency's curls all the way 
 to the Palazzo. The majordomo threw wide the 
 doors and displayed his beautiful legs. In the hall 
 Fortunata's mother was expostulating with Fran- 
 cesca, who was seeking to fasten the Contessa's 
 placket. It was part of this unhappy lady's mis- 
 fortune never to be completely dressed. She lacked 
 either a belt or a collar or a shoe- button, and hers 
 was a constant wail for pins. 
 
 Her first words were, "Princess, isn't it dreadful, 
 Antonia has left?" 
 
 "Has left?" cried her Excellency, who scented a 
 scandal . "With whom ? ' ' 
 
 "With Mariana, the cook. They have gone with 
 flowers to one of the churches. The cook has been 
 very sick, and now she is better, and they have 
 been offering up things that's why I'm so unpre- 
 pared. I didn't know you were coming." 
 
 Fortunata waited to hear no more, but with the 
 suggestion of a kiss for her mother betook herself 
 to her room, still mind and soul with the hat-boxes. 
 
 32
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 That night Fortunata, in her high-ceiled, chilly 
 room, with its pungent odor of plaster and matting, 
 stood candle in hand before the mirror and looked 
 into the face of her reflection. At the first glance 
 nothing remarkable a pale girl with a pointed chin 
 yet out of the dusk of the greenish old mirror 
 laughed two attractive, coffee-colored eyes amused, 
 audacious, like the eyes of a fawn. They gleamed 
 and danced, as must have shone the glance of the 
 waterwitch Undine when she was but a gay spirit 
 of the floods, before she loved and gained a soul. 
 Yet even as Fortunata looked, her eyes darkened 
 and grew sad almost to desperation and the soul 
 that had been lacking rose into their pupils, looked 
 out and thought. Was the iris brown or gray, black 
 or green? She could no more determine its color 
 than could the lovers in the fairy tale tell the hue 
 of the eyes of the princess. Charming, visionary 
 face! 
 
 "Serve me well!" prayed Fortunata. 
 
 Then she called Hortense, her maid she had pro- 
 cured her in Paris undressed, blew out her candle 
 and skipped into bed. 
 
 3
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HIS Eminence the Cardinal Santinello, spiritual 
 consoler to the Queen Mother, a pillar of the 
 Church, and Antonia's guide, philosopher, and 
 friend, took lunch at the Palazzo Colibri on the 
 following morning, the first of December. It was 
 a day so mild and of such blue skies that on leaving 
 the dining-room for coffee in the sola di ricevimento, 
 the wood fire that blazed in the chimney was scarcely 
 needed. The Princess bade Nello fling open the 
 long French windows. The Cardinal sat before the 
 flames and toasted his square-toed shoes and neat 
 scarlet stockings. His intelligent glance was raised 
 toward the ceiling, and rested on "Hope" astride of 
 a cloud, while through his handsome nostrils filtered 
 the smoke of a cigarette. Patiently he smiled on 
 his disciple Antonia, who held forth on the mysteries 
 of table-tipping, her last craze. With the sun on his 
 back, and the fire at his feet, the Cardinal was 
 content. 
 
 "Eminenza," Antonia cried, "I cannot believe 
 that death cuts us off forever from those we have 
 loved. Even on earth we can speak to them, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "Who knows?" yawned Santinello, showing his 
 white teeth. 
 
 "Eminenza," the Colibri interposed, laughing, 
 
 34
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 " Antonia has been everything from a Kneipist to a 
 suffragette. I have seen her wear Reform-kleiden 
 and go about in a bag. Now she watches all 
 the corners, looking for the dead her eyes, like a 
 cat's, following up and down the movements of 
 some invisible thing. It is unnerving." And the 
 Princess threw back her wicked, snout - shaped 
 face. 
 
 "Such enthusiasms are natural to a woman of 
 the Marchesa's fire and temperament," the Cardinal 
 contented himself by saying. 
 
 As for Antonia, she made no response, but re- 
 turned from the spirit-world long enough to cast 
 her aunt a tolerant glance, then continued with her 
 table-tippings in a voice as deep as Schumann- 
 Heink's, and even more tragic. 
 
 Then it was that Nello, coming in to take the 
 coffee-cups, whispered to the Princess. 
 
 "Guido," her Excellency cried, "Luigi has come 
 from Florence and is here! See Guide's long face, 
 Eminenza. This Luigi is the black sheep, a younger 
 brother, a rouge et noir devotee. He has come to 
 borrow money, if you call borrowing extorting that 
 which you are determined never to repay." 
 
 At the news Guido, who till then had been staring 
 stupidly at the fire, started to his feet and began 
 pacing the floor, muttering. 
 
 "My brother is here, then?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes, Eccellenza." The Marchese exacted this 
 title from the servants, although, not being in the 
 diplomacy, he had no right to it. 
 
 "What did my brother say?" questioned Da- 
 campagna. 
 
 35
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Don Luigi told me to inform your Excellency 
 of his arrival." 
 
 "Accidente! Then why didn't you do so?" 
 
 Men of Guido's disposition show their authority 
 by pretending to misunderstand their servants, and 
 by having with them long, violent explanations. 
 
 Tired with Guido's blustering talk, "Show in 
 Don Luigi!" commanded the Princess. Then, turn- 
 ing to Fortunata, "A most magnetic man. Is he 
 not, Antonia? When you were at school, Fortu- 
 nata, Luigi stayed here. He has his faults, no 
 doubt, appears a little like the hero of a cheap 
 French novel, uses perhaps too much pomade and 
 bear grease. You might know by the look of him 
 that he was disinherited. As a younger son, he 
 received almost nothing, and that nothing he soon 
 gambled, squandered, flung away. Persistent ill 
 luck at Monte Carlo left him as poor as a church 
 rat. His father, a pompous old merchant, would 
 have turned in the grave at seeing the bright lire 
 fly. Don't look at me like that, Guido, you know 
 your father was a merchant, and bought his title in 
 Humberto's reign. Madre de Dios!" cried the Prin- 
 cess, pointing, "see, the Marchesa is making herself 
 lovely!" For Antonia had broken off in her spirit- 
 ual talk, drawn from a vase a long-stemmed rose, 
 and was pinning it to the folds of her dress. Her 
 eyes were fixed on the door, and twin roses bloomed 
 on either cheek. 
 
 "Don Luigi Dacampagna!" announced Nello, and 
 in swaggered a young man, with his chin in the air, 
 in a haughty yet debonair fashion. Of course, he 
 was pale how could a younger son, the squanderer 
 
 36
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 of a fortune and a gambler, be otherwise? So pale 
 was he that across his face the ends of his waxed 
 mustache made two dark lines like thin, black 
 scars. In the centre of the room he stopped abrupt- 
 ly, clapped his heels together, and inclined his chin 
 over a spruce, high collar. 
 
 The two brothers shook hands, and affectingly 
 kissed each other on both cheeks. The salute was 
 performed with silent though dramatic warmth on 
 the part of the new-comer, with very ill grace on 
 that of his host. Don Luigi then continued his 
 dandified progress. To the Princess he made a 
 bow, and brushed his mustache over the one 
 finger she resigned him. He kissed the Cardinal's 
 ring, then to Antonia he turned with his all-con- 
 quering airs and took her outstretched hand. 
 
 "Marchesa," said he, "you had not thought to 
 see me so soon again. Was I wrong in coming 
 and not warning you?" His voice had a dramatic 
 quality, and at these seemingly harmless words 
 Antonia cast down her eyes. 
 
 "My husband's brother is always welcome," she 
 said. 
 
 "Antonia is even lovelier, Luigi mio?" the Prin- 
 cess asked. "She has hair enough to play Lady 
 Godiva; she is all eyes and curves a Juno." 
 
 "No, Princess," answered Don Luigi, "better a 
 Madonna. The Marchesa has a more tender and 
 divine expression." 
 
 "What do you think of Fortunata, Luigi?" asked 
 the Princess, in her bold, disconcerting voice. 
 
 Don Luigi wheeled to make his bow. It is not 
 etiquette to kiss the hand of a young girl. "Ah, 
 
 37
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Contessina!" And he admired Fortunata over his 
 spiky mustache. 
 
 "Isn't it strange, Don Luigi," she said, "that you 
 and I have never met before?" And she gave him 
 her hand, gravely, but as though she liked him. 
 
 "I was never fortunate," said Don Luigi, still 
 looking at Fortunata. But who can be called un- 
 fortunate who has the gift of pleasing? For his 
 eyes, every woman liked Don Luigi. His was not 
 the Frenchman's stare, but a glance all tenderness, 
 all ardor, which he never failed to bestow even on 
 a hag. Don Luigi, with large gestures, gave the 
 story of his ill luck for roulette, it seems, he had 
 discovered a system, faultless, infallible, mathemat- 
 ical, a system to make a man a multi-millionaire, 
 had he but sufficient capital for the start. With 
 Southern eloquence, he evoked the scene of Monte 
 Carlo the great, hot rooms, the intent figures 
 crowding round the gaming - table, the feathers on 
 the women's hats seeming to tremble with suspense, 
 the eager hands outstretched to make the bet. 
 "Rien ne va plus!" A hush, only the whirl of the 
 ball, a sharp, dry sound, then silence. With a rush 
 comes the storm of voices, excited or triumphant, 
 while here and there a forlorn figure turns and slinks 
 despondent away. As Don Luigi ceased, he looked 
 at his hearers in turn at Fortunata, at Antonia; 
 the latter said nothing, still kept her eyes downcast, 
 but she seemed to listen an unusual thing in this 
 visionary. 
 
 "Bravo!" cried the Princess, as with outflung 
 arms the dramatic speaker ceased. Don Luigi was 
 a favorite with her Excellency. She called him 
 
 38
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Lothario and Don Juan. "See the brothers, Emi- 
 nenza. Luigi is all youth and spirit and fire; then 
 look at Guido. Santa Madonna ! one might as 
 well compare a Mercury with a drunken Cen- 
 taur." 
 
 This proved too much for Guido, who turned on 
 his heel and went growling from the room. 
 
 Antonia lifted to her aunt her dark, reproachful 
 eyes. 
 
 "Ah, the dear Signorina Billford!" cried Luigi, 
 and he pointed to a recess where, against the faded 
 tapestry, Francesca, Eugenic, and the governess 
 were deep in a game of checkers. Eugenio, with his 
 hands in his waistcoat pockets, was supervising the 
 play of the two women. He was grown a slender, 
 dressy young man, with a healthy aversion for any- 
 thing like work. He lolled through two or three 
 hours of the morning in the company of an English 
 tutor, supposed to be coaching him for Oxford. 
 The Conte had outgrown the enthusiasms of his 
 Eton days. He was now of a melancholy turn of 
 mind, thought of taking up literature as a career, 
 and spent much time in a flowered dressing-gown, 
 reading French novels to improve his style. 
 
 At this time of year night comes with a bound. 
 The Princess bade Nello pull. to the windows and 
 unfold the shutters, carved with masques and gar- 
 goyles. The only light was that of the fire, in whose 
 glow the room found something of its lost splendor. 
 Guido appeared in the doorway, candle in hand to 
 light his Eminence down the stairs. 
 
 "Luigi," said Dacampagna, casting his brother 
 an ugly look, "where are you staying?" 
 
 39
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "While Luigi is in Rome," interposed the Princess, 
 "he is staying under my roof." 
 
 "As you please, Eccellenza," said Guido, turning 
 purple. 
 
 The Cardinal arose and held up two fingers in 
 the apostolic blessing. The others crowded about 
 him to kiss his ring. 
 
 First, the Princess Colibri bowed her stiff old 
 knees; then Antonia, seizing Santinello's hand, 
 kissed the amethyst as though she owed it her life; 
 next, Luigi hastened to press his lips on the stone, 
 yet he looked rather at Antonia than at his Emi- 
 nence. Even Miss Billford touched the jewel with 
 her strictly Episcopalian nose she did so with 
 shrinking, as though inhaling from a bottle of 
 powerful smelling-salts. 
 
 Santinello stepped into the darkness of the hall. 
 Guido and the candle followed, while Luigi, having 
 bowed with the grace of a dancing-master, swung 
 out, hand on hip. 
 
 Fortunata leaned over the banister and looked 
 into the well of blackness. The three men went 
 down the stairs: first stepped Santinello, flip-flop 
 in his long robes; next followed Guido with candle 
 held on high, and lastly came Luigi's lithe figure. 
 As the little flame wound down into blackness, her 
 sister joined her. Antonia's gaze the gaze of the 
 visionary strayed down into the gloom. 
 
 "Fortunata," she asked, "did you ever feel as 
 though somehow to-morrow would be different, hap- 
 pier, more complete than was to-day? Did you 
 ever say to yourself, 'To-morrow I shall be satis- 
 fied'?" 
 
 40
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Yes," Fortunata answered, "it is a kind of men- 
 tal toothache." 
 
 Antonia's queer, humid eyes met her sister's. 
 
 "Vero, vero!" she murmured, and the women 
 turned back into the sala. 
 
 "Billford," the Colibri was saying, "are your 
 knees made like other people's can you bend them ? 
 Eugenio, Francesca, pile up some cushions in that 
 chair; they shall be his Eminence. We'll teach 
 Miss Billford to bow the knee less stiffly." 
 
 "Listen," said Antonia, holding up her hand, "that 
 is Don Luigi's voice. Buona notte, Eminenza!" she 
 added, in a whisper, as though awed. "Those are 
 my two friends. It is better to have a friend than 
 all the love on earth." 
 
 "What's your opinion on that, Billford?" asked 
 the Princess, never tired of jeering the old governess. 
 The harassed Billford, weary of the enforced cere- 
 monies, brightened. 
 
 "Miss Burney in Evelina,' 1 said she, "gives a most 
 beautiful definition " 
 
 "Va bene, Nello!" interrupted the Princess, and 
 turning her back on Billford, she steamed through 
 the door, past the old servant, who, with gray head 
 obsequiously bent, stood, candle in hand, waiting 
 to light her Excellency through the rat-haunted 
 hall.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 NEXT morning Fortunata, submerged in the 
 Lethe of sleep, struggled up to the light through 
 fathomless waters. As she lay still in the cool, dark, 
 high-ceiled room, she was aware of a sense of well- 
 being. It's good to be young and pretty and have 
 the world before you, and the hope of being famous. 
 For famous Fortunata knew she ultimately would 
 be she had always known it. When only ten, she 
 would practise her signature against the days when 
 enthusiasts should send her their albums. 
 
 On such a morning who could lie abed ? Fortunata 
 threw on her wrapper and sprang for the nearest 
 window. What freshness! The morning smelled 
 like a rose. During the night it must have rained, 
 for everything glistened and the garden looked as 
 though its face had just been washed. Somewhere 
 a hidden singer carolled "La Bell' Arnica." The 
 man's rounded notes soared up into the air, and the 
 commonplace song gained a certain sincerity when 
 flung out in challenge at full voice : 
 
 "'Light in the morning and joy in youth, 
 
 But how should I laugh when my heart is afire? 
 She gave me a glance, a side-glance, 
 And I burn, I perish like a flame 
 Whose cruel eyes have the power to haunt me? 
 To haunt, to trouble, nay, to distract me? 
 You know but too well, la bell' Arnica!'" 
 42
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Fortunata raised her arms and took to teasing her 
 hair into curls. Suddenly she paused. In the hall 
 "Coco, Coco!" murmured an insidious voice. It 
 is Luigi, thought Fortunata; he must see my 
 wrapper! and she pounced into the corridor. Don 
 Luigi, on one knee, like a troubadour, was coaxing 
 a battered, disreputable parrot of seafaring appear- 
 ance and bandy-legged as well. Coco's whole atti- 
 tude expressed his perception of humor. He fixed 
 at intervals the would-be charmer with a critical, 
 uncanny eye, then glanced down his own beak, in 
 coquettish derision. 
 
 "Ah, Don Luigi!" exclaimed Fortunata, affecting 
 surprise. 
 
 "Ah, Contessina!" cried Don Luigi, starting up. 
 "Such a morning as this accursed bird has caused 
 me to pass! I have pursued him through every 
 corridor, and still, you see, impossible to approach 
 him." Here he bowed to Fortunata so low that 
 she could see the parting that ran through his well- 
 pomaded hair, from his forehead to the nape of his 
 neck. 
 
 Fortunata looked at him through her eyelashes. 
 
 "It was you this morning that sang 'La Bell' 
 Arnica'?" 
 
 "Yes." He was gratified. "Did you like it?" 
 
 "Yes." And with an abrupt change of manner, 
 "Watch me drive Coco." She pursued the reluc- 
 tant bird. With outspread wings and resentful 
 squawk, Coco scurried down the hall. In his agita- 
 tion, he squalled a ribald ballad in imitation of a 
 drunken sailor, who, after praising the vino rosso, 
 calls on his bella to sit once more upon his knee. 
 
 43
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 At a turning of the hall they came face to face 
 with the Colibri. The Princess wore an ermine 
 dressing-gown and a skull-cap drawn low over her 
 brow. It was later in the day that her Excellency 
 bloomed into feathers and curls. "Coco mio!" she 
 was whining, and her eyes were as round and wicked 
 as the parrot's. Indignantly the bird waddled past 
 the Princess to his perch. 
 
 "Buon giorno, Luigi," said the Colibri. Then, 
 contemplating Fortunata, "You have very little 
 on." As though struck by a sudden thought, the 
 Princess tiptoed across the hall, her wrapper trail- 
 ing with a furtive sound. She made for one of the 
 doors, pushed it open, and behold! there sat An- 
 tonia before her glass brushing out her cloud of hair. 
 The Princess, still holding the door wide open, pro- 
 tested, apologized: "Have you just waked? Scusi, 
 Antonia." Then she drew to the door, beckoned 
 Fortunata, and went tiptoeing back through the 
 halls with an agility that was somehow horrible in 
 such an old and heavy woman. 
 
 Only in the most romantic books does the en- 
 trance of the heroine cause a hush to fall upon the 
 ball-room. At her debut, a few days later, though 
 looking her best, Fortunata achieved no such elec- 
 trical effect. 
 
 That night the English Ambassadress, Lady Bol- 
 ton, gave a dinner to introduce the Honorable Misses 
 Bolton, two hard-washed young ladies in starchy 
 muslin. Into the dressing-room Fortunata entered, 
 head high in air. Here were six debutantes palpi- 
 tating on the threshold, six brown necks and twelve 
 
 44
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 collar-bones surrounded by muslin ruffs. A battered- 
 looking lady, bruised about the eyes, her teeth 
 studded with gold, her hair calling for regilding, 
 stood before the mirror powdering her nose. She 
 had a repaired, mended look. Out of the corners 
 of her eyes Fortunata studied the rival debutantes 
 and recognized her fellow dancing-school pupils of 
 a year ago only a year ago was it possible? 
 
 I needn't be afraid of these girls, she thought. 
 
 At last she of the looking-glass removed her bulk, 
 gave her gloves a nautical twitch suggestive of a 
 hornpipe, yanked up her train and trundled away. 
 On passing the debutantes she nodded good-tempered- 
 ly, in the manner of an intrepid swimmer who, strik- 
 ing out for the sea, flings back encouragement to 
 the shiverers in the surf. The debutantes surged up 
 to Fortunata. 
 
 "How my heart beats!" said the ringleader no 
 other than Fortunata's long-time friend, Loulou del 
 Coco, the same Loulou, plump and busy, always 
 slightly breathless from the round of futile duties. 
 
 Fortunata led the procession, and the vestals filed 
 through the doorway. Lady Bolton's fat, damp 
 hand enveloped the Contessina's. The English 
 Ambassadress was burdened with sorrows, years, 
 and fat. 
 
 "Henry, this is the Signorina Rivallo." 
 
 Lord Bolton bowed to Fortunata. He resembled 
 Father Time. 
 
 No one else was presented. The roof served as 
 an introduction, after the English fashion. Fortu- 
 nata set herself to learning the names of the guests. 
 She drifted about among the different groups, and 
 
 45
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 talked glibly. There were the Conte and Contessa 
 Torrigiano, the Conte and Contessa Chiostra, two 
 newly married couples, apparently inseparable, all 
 four. There were Englishmen from the Embassy, 
 and foreign attaches. There was some one with 
 genius and long hair whom no one seemed to know. 
 Mr. Hackburth was there, the keen-faced American 
 Ambassador, with his wife, a woman who, plain and 
 suppressed all her youth, had now burst out, to the 
 amazement of all, in a sort of Indian summer. 
 
 Time dragged on and dinner was not announced. 
 Whispers came from near the door. People turned, 
 and into the room strode a strapping young woman. 
 
 "The American!" said some one. "Miss Case!" 
 murmured somebody else. 
 
 "Une originale!" said the French attache to Fortu- 
 nata, putting up her eye-glass. 
 
 "I am late?" asked the new-comer, in a staccato 
 voice. 
 
 "Very," answered Lady Bolton. 
 
 "Too bad! The bell-boy who generally hooks me 
 up was out." A bomb could hardly have caused 
 more sensation. 
 
 "What courage, what power of success these wom- 
 en have!" the Frenchman went on, offering his arm 
 to Fortunata. ' ' Even Lady Bolton, so fastidious 
 
 "Oh, Miss Case is an American," Fortunata an- 
 swered, vaguely. After the Italian point of view 
 the word "American" explained all eccentricities 
 and impossible actions. 
 
 "She has no dot, I understand?" 
 
 "Oh, all Americans are rich!" Fortunata averred, 
 naively, and they sat down to dinner. 
 
 46
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 In the centre of the table lay a mound of flowers, 
 suggesting somehow a new-planted grave. Fortu- 
 nata was struck by the abstraction, the laziness of 
 the guests. She thought it strange that people 
 should dress so gorgeously, wear jewels, eat off fine 
 plate, and make no effort to live up to luxuries, nor 
 by a little animation earn their good food. But all 
 at once every one began to talk, and all together. 
 Nobody listened, each shrieked louder than the 
 other. The dinner finished in a clatter of noise, 
 the ladies passed into the reception-room; the 
 debutantes, replete and exhilarated, retired to a cor- 
 ner to discuss how low, when once married, they 
 could wear their gowns. Miss Case, indeed, might 
 have been a bigamist, if lack of clothes meant mar- 
 riage; yet somehow Fortunata's modest dress was 
 more alluring than the other's bareness. She and 
 Fortunata stood together, each scenting an enemy 
 and a rival. 
 
 "Do you like my Salome gown?" 
 
 "It suits you," answered Fortunata, courteously. 
 
 "You're not an Italian, are you? You're too 
 attractive." 
 
 "I am a mongrel." 
 
 Miss Case began to laugh, shaking a wreath of 
 false curls as yellow as marigolds. 
 
 "Aren't they funny?" she asked, pointing to the 
 debutantes. Then suddenly, in a burst of confidence : 
 "To break into Italian society is like taking candy 
 from children. I didn't expect to find it such a 
 cinch." 
 
 Singular person, thought Fortunata, to whom such 
 language was obscure. 
 
 47
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The men now came in. The long-haired genius 
 was asked to recite. He said he couldn't. He had 
 a cold he didn't dare! Everybody cried: "Oh, 
 please do! Somebody make him!" Finally he told 
 about Count Ugo in the Tower eating the dead 
 children, and everybody talked him down. 
 
 Fortunata sat by the fire, with most of the men, 
 though she was unconscious of having done any- 
 thing to attract them. Later, one of the English- 
 men moved his scalp for the pleasure of the com- 
 pany, twitched his ears, cracked his knuckles. He 
 was looked at with interest, and the party broke 
 up. 
 
 Fortunata drove home sure of success, impressed 
 not so much with her own cleverness as with the 
 idiocy of the world in general. She had hardly 
 reached her room when trailing steps and the whistle 
 of asthmatic breathing warned her of the approach 
 of the Princess. Fortunata opened the door. The 
 Colibri held a cashmere shawl up to her jowls, that 
 hung down as pale and polished as ivory. 
 
 "This is a pleasure," said Fortunata, and she 
 placed some cushions in her arm-chair. The Prin- 
 cess let herself down into a sitting posture, cracking 
 in every joint and breathing with the noise of a 
 dredge. Half undressed, her hair on her shoulders, 
 the young girl described the evening, imitating, 
 gesticulating, with the eagerness of a child. 
 
 "And the funniest was an American, my age, a 
 crazy creature, and so pushing." 
 
 "One must be obtrusive to obtrude." 
 
 "I wish you could have heard them talk rot, 
 Zia, rot! Most people are such fools!" 
 
 48
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "They are; never forget it. Nothing is more 
 numbing than respect for others. It makes dif- 
 fidence. Take every human being as your tool, 
 your prey, if need be; if you don't use them, they'll 
 use you. Determine to be some one. Make up 
 your mind to be heard of. Ah, Fortunata," said the 
 Princess, drawing herself up to her feet and flinch- 
 ing with rheumatism, "famous or infamous, what's 
 the odds, so long as you leave your mark?" She 
 turned in the doorway with lowered head, her chin 
 sagging on her breast. "Go ahead and make your 
 life this is the advice of one who loves you. Good- 
 night." 
 
 4
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE next night, at twelve, the Princess's ba- 
 rouche drew up before the Palazzo in a driz- 
 zling rain. Her Excellency would have starved 
 rather than give up her fine carriage, sleek horses, 
 her overfed coachman and groom. 
 
 "It is raining," said Fortunata's mother, peering 
 sadly into the mist. "I have said since five to-day 
 that it would rain. I have felt it by my bronchitis." 
 
 "When one has so many presentiments, some of 
 them must come true," sneered the Princess, sweep- 
 ing by, and she took her place in the barouche, 
 followed by Antonia, Fortunata, Guido, and Luigi, 
 who crammed themselves in as best they might. 
 
 Luigi, seated opposite Antonia, fixed on her his 
 fervent eyes, while all the time unperceived he held 
 one of Fortunata's hands as in a vise. 
 
 The carriage drew up at the French Embassy. 
 Monsieur de Quimpere was giving a cotillon in his 
 daughter's honor. Five rows of gilt chairs edged 
 the ball-room. The back seats overflowed with 
 mothers, dowagers, chaperones, and bench women, 
 who kept rearing up to see the dancing, calling on 
 their daughters and climbing over the other tiers 
 to find their offspring, too long absent from the 
 maternal side. Between the dances the breathless 
 debutantes were brought back and dumped beside 
 
 So
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 their respective chaperones. The young men passed, 
 all animation, all gayety, all desire to please and 
 to be pleased. They were smartly dressed, well 
 groomed, very correct, ultra English Anglomania 
 had lately seized Italy. It is a pity, for the Ital- 
 ians are an idealistic race, the Byronic becomes 
 them, the neglige shirts and turn-down collars. 
 
 Many of the women were beautiful, many elegant, 
 almost all dark. Like Antonia, they seemed ab- 
 stracted, had momentary flashes of tenderness or 
 childish annoyance at being stepped on or not being 
 asked to waltz. Unlike the Northern women, they 
 made no effort to disguise their feelings. If not in- 
 vited to dance, they drooped frankly in a corner. 
 Fortunata had found that she had entertained 
 wrong ideas of the world, or at least of the Italian 
 world. There was not the toadying to money and 
 position that she had expected to find. On the 
 contrary, the Romans are independent; they take 
 people for what they are, paying respect to age, to 
 beauty. The Italians were once a great people; 
 they do not always forget it. Of course, if an 
 American heiress comes to be married off, she will 
 be treated with consideration that is another ques- 
 tion a question of business. 
 
 The Colibri sat in the front row, her feet on the 
 rounds of her chair to avoid the tread of the dancers. 
 Had the waltzers been earning their daily bread, 
 one must have pitied them. Between dances the 
 Contessina Rivallo came decorously back to her 
 aunt's side, yet her partners lingered. Fortunata 
 was beginning already to taste the sweetness, the 
 intoxication of success. She had come into her
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 kingdom, the kingdom of the woman born to please. 
 A sense of power ran in her veins like fire. Other 
 debutantes, less gifted, sat with their mammas, quite 
 forgotten. Their poor little heads marcelled and 
 decked out to charm made one's heart ache. 
 
 "Eccellenza, where is Antonia?" asked Guido, 
 fighting his way up and looking damp. 
 
 "Don't you see, hanging on to Luigi in the mid- 
 dle of the room? She's had him by the throat all 
 evening. Some one has just knocked her comb 
 out, and she is smiling reassurance through a rain 
 of hair-pins." 
 
 In the arms of a tall officer, Miss Case was whirled 
 past, uttering shrieks of delight as she bumped and 
 disabled the other dancers. 
 
 "She has a handsome figure!" exclaimed Mr. 
 Hackburth to the Princess. 
 
 "Pshaw!" the Princess answered; "she's laced 
 to the shape of a bass viol." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hackburth!" cried Miss Case, rushing 
 up. "please make me acquainted with the dear 
 Princess Colibri." 
 
 Mr. Hackburth murmured an introduction. Miss 
 Case had suffered a change since yesterday, and 
 for the worse. Her frank breeziness was gone. 
 Determined to be foreign, to be emotional, she 
 grimaced and gabbled a ridiculous jargon. "I am 
 ravished with meeting you!" she exclaimed. "Oh, 
 dear me chere amie figure to yourself oh, what 
 is the English word!" 
 
 "Say it in French," the Princess answered; "I 
 understand French." 
 
 Disgruntled, Miss Case found the English word. 
 
 52
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "And how long do you think I have been abroad?" 
 she asked, on her second wind. 
 
 "I should judge, Mademoiselle, from the difficulty 
 you have in speaking your own language, a very 
 short while." 
 
 "To know a gentleman, one must see him drunk," 
 announced the Princess, as they drove home in the 
 early dawn. "Guido is repulsive. Mary in Heaven! 
 Antonia's hands are as cold as a dead lamb's mouth 
 feel them, Luigi." 
 
 Fortunata had come home blessedly tired, and 
 was sitting on her bed, having kicked off her high- 
 heeled slippers. She was smiling, thinking of her 
 triumphs. She had been so entertained above all, 
 so entertaining that she had not eaten; now she 
 felt the pangs of a harassing midnight hunger. She 
 threw on her wrapper, caught up her candle, and 
 passed like an agile ghost through the dark building. 
 Avoiding the boards that creaked, the doors that 
 groaned from experience through youthful maraud- 
 ing expeditions she came to the pantry, a cupboard 
 that gave on the down-stairs hall. Disappointed 
 in her gropings among the tea and sticks of cinna- 
 mon, she cautiously climbed the step-ladder and 
 sought higher here only brittle sticks of vermicelli 
 and a cake of cooking chocolate. A chilly breath 
 of air passed, and the candle flame wavered. At 
 times mysterious draughts sighed through the 
 palace. Again the breath. It blew the flame out, 
 and Fortunata was in a heavy darkness. Close to 
 her, it seemed, faint yet horribly distinct, came a 
 sound. She stood motionless, frozen with horror. 
 
 S3
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Again the sound! It spoke and Fortunate, knew 
 Antonia's voice! 
 
 She came down the stairs, swung back the door 
 and glanced into the hall. Within arm's reach of 
 her, near a window and in the eerie lustre of the 
 dawn, stood two figures their faces luminously pale 
 and their dark hair intermingled. The sleeves of a 
 woman's kimono stirred against the man like sails 
 vibrating in a breeze. All the gales of heaven might 
 have blown, since the lovers had forgotten the wind 
 and the cold, all, for each other's lips. The door 
 swung to, discreetly, and Fortunata was in darkness. 
 She heard Antonia say : 
 
 "Luigi, go!" 
 
 And he answered: "You have made me love you. 
 I didn't dare to; I avoided you! What is it that 
 you want? That I should give you up? How 
 can I!" 
 
 Then, with a change of voice, Antonia cried: "No, 
 but to love me! Kiss me, Luigi!" 
 
 Together, walking so near one to the other that 
 they could have cast but one shadow, the woman 
 and the man passed, holding each other by the 
 hand, with a kind of rapturous sadness for passion 
 is melancholy, there being in this world no entire 
 communion. The heart has ever before it the fear 
 of change, of faithlessness, of satiety, of separation. 
 
 Fortunata stood in the dark, in an agony of sad- 
 ness. Lightless, she groped her way up to bed. A 
 curious fact it was that this selfish young girl knew 
 more tenderness for her half-sister, the Marchesa, 
 than for all other humans in the wide world; yet 
 Antonia was forever immersed in herself, her senti- 
 
 54
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ments, her emotions, her moods, talking of her tem- 
 perament everlastingly, vaporish and egotistical to 
 a miracle. 
 
 For years the Marchesa had endured a miserable 
 marriage. Now she had found a consoler, and this, 
 according to the Italian point of view, was not only 
 natural but inevitable. The part of Penelope was 
 never understood on the Continent. Does a woman 
 love her husband, him only, forever and at all times, 
 Rome will smile and say, "She was eccentric al- 
 ways." Society looks on at so legitimate an affec- 
 tion with that half-scornful amusement one might 
 feel toward a convert to Buddhism or a Kneipist, or 
 toward a maniac who is persistent in going to bed in 
 smoked glasses "She was original, always, a great 
 poseuse." 
 
 Although an Italian, Fortunata was yet disil- 
 lusioned, bitterly hurt, as though her sister had 
 failed her. 
 
 Who is truthful? she thought. Who is good? 
 She herself was neither. Nevertheless, she admired 
 in others such qualities without emulating them. 
 Besides, in a family there must be some one to turn 
 to, to count on, to believe in some one with the 
 simple, sterling, restful, old-fashioned virtues.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 FORTUNATA led a helter-skelter life, full of 
 noise and bustle. She rode, visited, tea'd, all 
 in a hurry. She danced until the sun was up, and 
 as she passed to her carriage, her partners whispered 
 to her. The debutantes said, "That is Fortunata 
 Rivallo isn't she pretty ?" She was tired at times, 
 mortally tired. The business seemed so aimless, 
 she would say to herself, "What's it all for ?" There 
 wasn't one face at the ball, theatre, entertainment 
 of any kind which she cared to see again. To keep 
 in the fashion, she owed modiste, dressmaker, 
 jeweller, right and left. She contracted debts with 
 an ease worthy of her father. The dress of to-day 
 was ordered without the means of paying to-mor- 
 row, and as for the debts of yesterday, she clean 
 forgot them. Shop-people were lenient with her, 
 as indeed was every one; her manner of owing 
 confiding, childlike would have disarmed a Jew 
 pawnbroker. 
 
 On the whole, those were joyous days. She never 
 was again so happy. "To be happy," says the 
 proverb, "one needs something to hope for, some- 
 thing to work for, and something to love." If a 
 perpetual adoration of self answer to a human affec- 
 tion, Fortunata had a heart full of tenderness. As 
 for hope, she longed for a husband, rich, influential 
 
 56
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 attractive, possibly; as for work, her enemies could 
 not have accused her, at least where her social ca- 
 reer was concerned, of carelessness, idleness, or self- 
 indulgence. She was never so tired but she could 
 sparkle and smile ; never so sad but she could 
 laugh and make others laugh; always on the qui 
 vive for the right word, awake to the least intona- 
 tion, alive to every point of view. 
 
 Fortunata's intimates discussed her freely. They 
 were attached to her, nay, they were devoted. But 
 was she beautiful, was she clever ? Truth compelled 
 them to say no a thousand times no. Then why 
 was it women infinitely prettier, incomparably more 
 brilliant, failed to attain an equal popularity? Her 
 friends philosophized on the shallow taste of men 
 in general and the curious succession of accidents 
 that go to make a groundless reputation. Fortu- 
 nata's talisman, call it sympathy, magnetism, what 
 you will, was an inheritance of her father's manner. 
 Her manner was her genius. Between herself and 
 even a five minutes' acquaintance, it implied a bond 
 of sympathy, a secret tie. Her eyes, her inflections 
 of voice seemed to say, ' ' How charming, how witty, 
 how unusual you are!" She made others eloquent. 
 She spurred on their hobbies. "I" was a word she 
 did not know; it was always "You, you!" Her 
 "Yes" implied appreciation, understanding; her 
 "Good-night" was an art; her handshake, warm 
 and living, insinuated a caress. Her "Thank you" 
 inspired a man to devote his life to her service. 
 
 Her desk was snowed under with invitations. 
 Every day of the season a luncheon. Of an after- 
 noon, drawn by her aunt's splendid horses, she 
 
 57
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 drove the streets, distributed cards, and clasped 
 the hands of distraught hostesses distributing tea. 
 Night after night, dinner after dinner. 
 
 And the balls! She danced, and the fiddlers grew 
 tired. She danced, and the candles burned down, 
 the dowagers yawned, the old ladies put on their 
 shawls, drew on their galoshes. But her partners 
 were never weary. Pale, effulgent, the dawn rose 
 and found her dancing still. If the next morning 
 chanced to be a hunting-day, after three hours' sleep 
 she might have been seen scouring the field on her 
 lean hunter, her campaign hat bravely turned up 
 in front, her stock prodigiously high, looking for 
 all the world like a little Napoleon. 
 
 She had an army of suitors. She smiled upon 
 the regiment; she encouraged her followers and 
 played them off against one another. She saw them 
 jealous, and was gratified. She saw them miserable, 
 and was happy. She saw them foolish, and was 
 hugely entertained. Yet she cared not a lira for 
 the lot. Her suitors were mostly penniless. A life 
 spent with such, to her taste would be but sordid. 
 
 "Why," she would ask, with admirable common- 
 sense "why encumber one's self with a husband if 
 he can give one nothing?" 
 
 "Love is only love," the Princess Colibri would 
 answer; "but money, Fortunata, is the world." 
 
 Her love-affairs were no pastime, but the study of 
 an art the art of subjugating hearts. To be de- 
 sired, to be loved, to charm, requires so tremulous a 
 sympathy, an interest in all surroundings so vital 
 and bewitching, such patience, such endurance, so 
 subtle a knowledge of the heart, that surely a pro- 
 
 58
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ficient flirt is no contemptible thing. To attract, 
 Fortunata had long regarded as a paramount duty, 
 and that not only as a duty, but as the necessary 
 struggle to keep afloat in the social swim. In ques- 
 tions of love, hers was an unhappy nature she 
 belonged to that race of conquerors of men who 
 delight only in the pursuit and grow indifferent to 
 the ultimate gain. A man's devotion and the knowl- 
 edge of it was not enough for her. The world must 
 know. The ball-room must see the enamoured swain 
 following her footsteps with reverence and with 
 passion; the rest was nothing. When, in the praise- 
 worthy cause of regaining a deserter, she was forced 
 to resign a few hours to a tete-a-tete and the hold- 
 ing of hands, she was driven to the extremities of 
 boredom. 
 
 It was strange that this creature who seemed 
 made all of flame, whose eyes in a moment flashed 
 or grew dangerously tender, whose voice knew every 
 grade between the clear, bird-like tones of indiffer- 
 ence and those throaty emotional notes, should be, in 
 truth, as passionless as the sternest moralist could 
 desire, and, had her vanity not been so monstrous, 
 as pure. A type of woman not uncommon, yet, in 
 the long run, more undermining to morals than the 
 most unbridled passion; a type of woman who in 
 matters of love is without scruple, without mercy, 
 without one faithful quality. In vanity, ardent, 
 insatiable, more ravenous than the cormorant. 
 
 But hers was not an easy life; hampered for 
 money, her family in bad odor, herself as proud as 
 Lucifer and thinking the best hardly good enough 
 the odds were against her. She encountered 
 
 59
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 slights; was called upon to kow-tow to unsym- 
 pathetic people; she dared never speak her own 
 mind; was forced to weigh every word; ferret out 
 a good match; seem bright and responsive always; 
 listen to fools as though they were wise men, and 
 when bored keep a pleasant face. She was versatile 
 enough to charm the dowagers and at the same 
 time fascinate their grandsons. One is either gain- 
 ing or losing, no one ever remains stationary. It 
 was a bitter struggle, as is every profession where 
 competition enters. A soldier is wounded and falls 
 out of the ranks; a woman in society may be ill, 
 may be sad, but whether in agony or broken-hearted 
 she must be at her post, for that very night the 
 chance of her life may go by or the rival she fears 
 may gain on her. Yet, handicapped as Fortunata 
 was, she held her own among American heiresses, 
 Italian beauties, girls far richer and prettier than 
 she. Little by little she crept into prominence; 
 she began to figure as a personality. A bishop 
 would have thought her a sweet girl ; a roue, a per- 
 verted coquette. She ranked at first as the most 
 attractive debutante, then took place among the 
 charming girls a city is proud to have strangers to 
 meet. Next, some one discovered that she was 
 fascinating, unique, that there was no one like her. 
 It became the rage to say, "Ah, La Rivallo! what a 
 charming, what a divine creature !" Thus one morn- 
 ing Fortunata awoke to find herself famous. 
 
 The Princess Colibri was proud; she grew lavish, 
 entertained; she swore that her protegee should 
 have a ball. The shutters of the state apartments 
 were flung wide. The vast halls saw the light; 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 the suits of armor stood astonished at the sun 
 casqued warriors leaning on their spears, waiting, 
 always waiting. For the first time in twenty years, 
 since Conte Ugo Rivallo had brought home Annie 
 Brandelsbury as his bride, the cobwebs were swept 
 from the walls. 
 
 Fortunata came into her kingdom, as it were. 
 She was feted, adored, made giddy with words of 
 love, with proposals of marriage. But, alas! her 
 devoted admirers were mostly half-pay officers, 
 young Italian nobles without a lira. She kept her 
 head; she was cautious; she said "No!" The Prin- 
 cess approved her tactics. "Attenzione, bellissima 
 mia!" the Princess would say, laying her finger 
 alongside her evil old nose. "What do we come 
 into this world for, unless to die better off than we 
 were born?" 
 
 However much Fortunata disdained the poses and 
 cheap wit of her eccentric relative, nevertheless her 
 aunt's precepts accorded too well with her own ideas 
 not to carry a certain weight. The old heathen 
 who had forsaken her God, who cheated at cards 
 like a sharper, who knew no charity, nor truth, nor 
 honor, had, nevertheless, her own code of laws, her 
 own principles, her own right and wrong. In the 
 Colibri's mind, the nonentity, the one who failed 
 was a criminal. She was merciless to the girl who 
 chose an obscure love-match rather than barter 
 herself for a round sum. Such self-indulgence was 
 disgusting. 
 
 Fortunata dreaded love as one might dread a 
 fever. A passion such as that of Don Luigi and the 
 Marchesa, she thought, must be an obsession of the 
 
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 heart, a slavery of the senses, something fatal, de- 
 grading. The lovers did not seem happy, yet they 
 were constantly together. No one molested them, 
 and Guido proved as blind as a mole. The Colibri 
 was most obliging. She smoothed out the course 
 of love, proverbially rough; ran her house to please 
 the lovers; was all discretion and tact. She nour- 
 ished and shielded this passion as though it were a 
 monster that she loved and meant to make use of. 
 The rest of the household strove to be helpful, with 
 the exception of Billford, unconscious of the situa- 
 tion, Fortunata's mother busy taking pills, and 
 Francesca, who did not count. The others with one 
 accord distracted Guido. The very servants pro- 
 tected the lovers all Italians are lenient to love. 
 They made no secret of their relations they were 
 to be seen at night passing through the dim halls, 
 walking slowly, close together, his arm about her, 
 her long hair falling like a storm-cloud over his 
 shoulder. Meanwhile Guido lounged down - stairs, 
 swigging barolo. He was chronically drunk, sang 
 and raved in the halls, or, more often, sat about be- 
 sotted, his feet in their long-toed foreign boots rest- 
 ing on the table. He let his wife go her own way, 
 while he went his. But the road to Hades is not 
 always easy. The lovers suffered; each was the 
 other's bane; they were suspicious, jealous, unsatis- 
 fied. They indulged in orgies of anger, as it were, 
 in debauches of rage. In one of these perverted 
 transports, Luigi seized Antonia by the hand and 
 gave her wrist a wrench, calling her names unfit to 
 be told. She fell on her knees, her hair sweeping 
 the floor, and her cries made the Palazzo ring. 
 
 6?
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Down-stairs some of the family gathered about the 
 studious green lamp, exchanged knowing glances, 
 wagged their heads, while Miss Billford wondered, 
 and, innocent as a babe, asked Dacampagna what 
 ailed his amiable lady. 
 
 The passion of Don Luigi and Antonia was of that 
 ominous nature whose mark is jealousy, unfaithful- 
 ness, tumultuous anger, whose relapses to tender- 
 ness are even more ill-fated a love incomplete, un- 
 satisfying, yet impossible to shake off. He had at 
 first been attracted by her beauty, by her melan- 
 choly, that so well became her. Now he found his 
 heart more compromised than he had thought pos- 
 sible, and was held by her self-abandonment, her 
 stormy tenderness and attacks of conscience. At 
 first, he believed this remorse feigned. He was to 
 learn, however, that Antonia pretended an emotion 
 as little as she concealed one. 
 
 Lent came in. The air was filled with the chim- 
 ing of bells, solemn processions filed through the 
 streets. The churches rang to the De Profundis. 
 Balls, dinners, festas were no more the pious 
 fasted. Antonia swathed herself in black, grew 
 severe with lack of food, and pale as any phantom. 
 She trod the halls of the Palazzo as though pacing 
 a cloister, fingered her rosary, and passed Don Luigi 
 with head averted. 
 
 Don Luigi, saddened by the austerity of his mis- 
 tress, turned to Fortunata for diversion, but re- 
 ceived little encouragement. His "dearest mother," 
 he suddenly remembered, had written from Florence, 
 entreating him to come to her, and he took himself 
 off, after having in vain tried to work out of his 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 brother "a trifling loan, a mere nothing." Guido, 
 who ate mostly away from home, declared that he 
 was fasting, had given up meat for Lent. This state- 
 ment was met with general incredulity, "Though, 
 of course," admitted the Princess, "it may be true, 
 for he is drunker than ever, which either proves that 
 he eats less or drinks more." The Colibri, getting 
 wind that one of her rivals, an old buffoon who, like 
 herself, affected the eccentric and ridiculous, had a 
 change of heart and had taken a priest into her pal- 
 ace for the Lenten season, was fired with emulation, 
 and she withdrew to the convent of the Assumptione, 
 a very austere order, to make what is called a re- 
 treat. How the godless old woman passed her time 
 among the Sisters of the Poor none ever knew. 
 Fortunata found herself practically alone. Nonen- 
 tities such as her mother, her younger sister, and the 
 governess did not count. Eugenio was now in Eng- 
 land, supposedly deep in work at Oxford. The 
 Contessina passed her time straightening out her 
 entangled love - affairs, and trying to make out of 
 no money at all enough to buy her summer ward- 
 robe. The Palazzo was as sober as a cloister. Miss 
 Case made daily incursions. Her loud, affected 
 voice, her foreign cries of, "Fortunata, carissima, 
 bellissima, ma cherie!" echoed falsely through the 
 palace. She was vulgar, compared with the other 
 bread-and-butter Misses of Rome. The girls drank 
 tea together in the vast hall. They bragged of their 
 invitations, confided their love-affairs, hinted at 
 their lovers, whispered scandal, and lamented the 
 dulness of Lent. 
 
 At last the forty days of mourning were over. 
 
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 The Colibri emerged from her retreat wearing a 
 smug air of propriety. 
 
 At the first whisper of spring, Don Luigi forgot 
 Florence, forgot his mother, and came post - haste 
 to the Palazzo. In the rejuvenation of the season, 
 Rome grew young. The hawkers found stronger 
 voices, the women looked prettier; the flowers 
 bloomed as though by magic. Even Guido became 
 affable. "Fragoli, fragoli!" shouted the strawberry 
 sellers. The women, in their spring finery, vied in 
 color with the flowers of the Piazza di Spagna 
 tulips, lilies, roses, painted as it were with blood. 
 Fortunata's friends instigated automobiling parties 
 to Tivoli, to Frascati, to Subiaco. The Italians, 
 with their inevitable dramatic sense, were costumed 
 for these excursions like the chorus in a comic opera 
 neglige shirts, turned-down collars, flowing ties, 
 linen checked to cause astigmatism. They gave 
 themselves to pleasure as other nations do to drink. 
 They liked everybody; were amused at everything; 
 they rode on donkeys, and interchanged words of 
 love. They lunched at newly discovered inns. In 
 vine-covered arbors they ate vitello, vermicelli, and 
 risotto; they drank the sweet wines of the country; 
 with the pretty manners that never forsake their 
 race, they toasted each other, exchanged flattering 
 speeches, and in the sun they laughed like a com- 
 pany of fauns whose only business is to be happy. 
 Such a nation ! They have not their equal the world 
 over for charm, for grace, for the ways that endear; 
 they glow at a word; every humor becomes them; 
 they make a friend with a side-glance, and take 
 your heart with a smile. 
 5 65
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 As the spring waned and the sun grew furious, 
 Fortunata's mother, the Contessa, complained of 
 more ills than Job himself. She and Francesca took 
 train for Porto d'Ancio the more fashionable 
 watering-places, for lack of means, were denied them. 
 Miss Billford accompanied them. The governess's 
 wages were due now for over a year; no one seemed 
 to know what was to be done about it. The Colibri 
 declared that the Contessa must pay; the Contessa 
 wailed her inability. "After all," observed the 
 Princess, "one can't turn such a poor old orphan 
 adrift." 
 
 Fortunata stayed on, to her secret satisfaction, 
 with the Princess, Antonia, and Luigi in the stifling 
 Roman heat. 
 
 Eugenio now came home from England. He was 
 through, he said, with that country of snobs and 
 vandals. Oxford had done him little good. He 
 was the same, half-fop, half -aesthete . He took to 
 his flowered dressing-gown again, had his hair waved, 
 and wrote verses. Meanwhile, however fierce the 
 days, the nights were balmy ; the moon and the stars, 
 veiled in a mist of heat, discreetly forgot to watch 
 the earth. At night in the Palazzo gardens, the 
 nightingales sang, breathed out a rapturous note, 
 repeated, tender as a sigh. In the voluptuous sweet- 
 ness of the night, Don Luigi and the Marchesa for- 
 got their grievances, their jealousies. The myrtle, 
 the laurel, the rampant plants, expanded and bred 
 in the sun, stirred by the breath of the night, rustled 
 in the dark.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A^TONIA had made Fortunata her confidante. 
 The Marchesa saw nothing out of place in re- 
 vealing to a younger sister the secrets of her love. 
 
 "I must lose him, Fortunata, I never forget it. 
 He will marry. It is right that he should. I am 
 prepared for it, as I am prepared for death, for old 
 age." 
 
 "Luigi will never dream of such a thing," Fortu- 
 nata assured. 
 
 "He will marry." The Marchesa held up her 
 long forefinger. "It is as certain as death itself." 
 
 Fortunata consoled her as best she might. 
 
 On his side, Don Luigi was not silent. He thought 
 Fortunata divine. Since she would not let him 
 make love to her, he did the next best thing and 
 talked to her about love. 
 
 One afternoon Fortunata sat in the garden in the 
 shade of a cypress-tree. She had a book in her lap, 
 a cigarette in her hand, and felt kindly to all the 
 world. Luigi sauntered past in his pearl-gray suit 
 fitted in at the waist. She watched him awhile, 
 amused by his swagger. He felt her eyes upon 
 him. She said nothing, and he came and sat down 
 on the ground beside her. He took off his hat, his 
 hair was in tight curls with the heat; with a silk 
 scarf he wiped his brow; a fragrance of tuberose 
 was wafted through the air. 
 
 67
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Antonia's perfume," he said, waving the hand- 
 kerchief before Fortunata's nose. 
 
 They sat side by side, more or less silent, enjoy- 
 ing the shade. His mustache was brushed up, 
 almost into his eyes. There was something virile, 
 feline about him that suggested a panther. Fortu- 
 nata yawned; after a pause she said: 
 
 "Antonia was calling you awhile ago." 
 
 "Aye! Antonia!" He made a gesture with his 
 hand as though throwing a quoit. "What madness, 
 what folly, Fortunata! Yesterday Antonia said 
 to me, 'Luigi, let us go away together, to America, 
 to Australia non lo so. I stand before Guido this 
 way '" He dropped his head forward, imitating 
 the Marchesa. "'Antonia,' I told her, 'you are 
 mad!' And she cried, she cried!" 
 
 Sincerely, without any wish to be funny, he 
 imitated a woman weeping. "Santo Spirito, can 
 such things be ? While a wife is with her husband, 
 it is all very well; but when she leaves him, who 
 then speaks kindly of her, where is her character? 
 Like this" he held out his palms, blew on them, 
 then spread his fingers "it is gone forever!" 
 
 ' ' Gone forever !' ' corroborated Fortunata. She was 
 far too much of an Italian to see anything unusual 
 in the discussion. 
 
 "And besides," continued Don Luigi, with the 
 simplicity that cropped out in him at times, "I 
 should not like it. It would cause me much dis- 
 comfort. Guido would find me out, challenge me. 
 He is a good shot, che diavolo! I am never afraid, 
 but life is dear, Contessina. Antonia and I must 
 creep off, like robbers in the night. I don't steal 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 a man's wife, per Dio! and carry her away from 
 him. Then, how should we live? Guido, only, 
 has money. Aye, Madonna, is such a thing pos- 
 sible?" 
 
 "Quite impossible," agreed Fortunata. 
 
 He turned violently toward her. "You angel!" 
 he cried, seizing both her hands. "Talk with An- 
 tonia, Fortunata. Show her it cannot be. Tell 
 her it is madness absolute insanity." 
 
 "I will tell her." 
 
 "Ah, thank you, thank you!" He kissed her 
 hands rapidly, first one, then the other, with a fer- 
 vor that suggested something more than gratitude. 
 
 From her grandfather, perhaps, the business 
 American, Fortunata had inherited method, a sense 
 of the value of time, and courage for work. In a 
 padlocked tin cake-box she kept systematically 
 ticketed all the love-letters she had ever received. 
 There were packets as thick as a volume; others, 
 single letters from anonymous admirers, sent after 
 the Italian fashion. There were trinkets, original 
 poems, pressed flowers, and tokens innumerable. 
 She treasured these, not because they were dear to 
 her or evoked tender remembrances, but as proofs 
 of her ability. She sorted and labelled them as a 
 public man might sort his newspaper clippings. She 
 kept a list of her admirers, of the men she flirted 
 and danced with; another of such as had proposed; 
 and a third of those who she thought really loved 
 her. The first and the second categories filled 
 pages, the third was shorter. Among the names 
 was that of a young Italian, the Marchese Guasconti, 
 popular then in Rome. He was a gentleman, good- 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 looking and agreeable, though deplorably poor. His 
 poverty, one might have thought, would have saved 
 him from Fortunata's wiles, yet she gave him no 
 rest until he was in love with her, so desperately in 
 love that he followed her about in asinine fashion, 
 in the sight of all Rome, He proposed to her re- 
 peatedly. She replied in an indefinite way, after 
 the manner of women of her type. Her answers 
 meant "I can't marry you, but keep on making 
 love to me. Be a sentimental old bachelor for my 
 sake." At last he placed her in a position where 
 there was no avoiding the issue. If she said no, 
 she knew she must lose him, so she made it yes, but 
 stipulated that their engagement be kept secret. 
 Her mother, she explained, was under the influence 
 of her aunt, and the Princess Colibri, she declared, 
 would never hear of her making a match that was 
 not brilliant from a pecuniary standpoint. Guas- 
 conti agreed to silence. Missionary work in dark- 
 est Africa was not further from Fortunata's plans 
 than was this marriage, yet her answers were almost 
 as insanely fond as his own letters. She saw him 
 every day, or, if too much occurred, she appointed 
 an hour in the night, after an entertainment, for 
 the season was now again in full swing. On the lower 
 floor of the palace, through a barred window, Fortuna- 
 ta whispered to Guasconti out in the damp and dreary 
 cold of October a sad season that year. The dawn 
 was unbecoming to her lover, and she feared like- 
 wise to herself. His face was cadaverous and his 
 nose blue. Why endure such discomfort ? Merely 
 to prove that a man who had once loved her could 
 not easily leave or forget her. Perhaps she hoped, 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 incredible as it may seem, that when she broke with 
 Guasconti, he would in some way make her famous 
 threaten to shoot her or commit suicide. A wise 
 proverb says, ''Beware of those who have never suf- 
 fered . ' ' Fortunata had never known the pangs of love . 
 With Guasconti she planned their wedding journey, 
 the whereabouts of their honeymoon. She smiled 
 upon their mutual future, yet all the while she was 
 looking for a way of escape. Guasconti's attentions, 
 she feared, had begun to compromise her, and to 
 cut off other suitors. In her difficulty she turned 
 to her aunt. The Princess and she had been wont 
 to hunt in couples. Her Excellency undertook a 
 little comedy, and played the part of a brutal rela- 
 tive, tyrannizing over a weak-willed but affection- 
 ate young girl. When, after the interview, Guas- 
 conti, looking old and shaken, came to Fortunata, 
 she found to her surprise that she could cry. She 
 wept upon his shoulder very piteously natural tears, 
 for she had been anxious as to the issue of her plan 
 and was nervous and overwrought. He held her 
 in his arms and thought her broken-hearted. He 
 comforted and soothed her. When one loves so 
 entirely how can one doubt, how blame? And so 
 he left her. So cleverly had she acted that he felt 
 for her no bitterness, no disillusionment he loved 
 her if anything the more. 
 
 Fortunata was one of those who observe them- 
 selves as they pass through life. She would watch 
 herself come into a room, bow, shake hands, com- 
 pliment. She was aware of any defects in her 
 manner; she noted, as might an onlooker, her sweet, 
 spontaneous smile. And so, instead of feeling re-
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 morse for the undeniable wrong she had done a man 
 who devotedly loved her, she was occupied in watch- 
 ing her own attitudes while passing through so dis- 
 agreeable a phase. 
 
 There had never been any one to turn Fortunata 
 into the right way, to say, "Keep your face to the 
 light, and remember there is more to be done in 
 the world than to confound Cardinal Santinello and 
 bring down your waist to eighteen inches. Your 
 help and your love, and some of your life's blood, 
 must be given before you come to the end of the 
 road."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IT was the hour of the colazzione. The Colibri and 
 her relatives were at lunch. All were there ex- 
 cept Luigi and Guido, who were gone to the races. 
 Antonia had risen from the table, and at the farther 
 end of the room she was supervising the placing of 
 some plants, pointing gravely with a banana. 
 "A letter, Eccellenza, from the Queen Mother." 
 Nello bowed low with the salver. The Princess 
 took up the envelope, stamped with the royal arms 
 a scarlet shield bearing a white cross, right and 
 left two lions, and hung with the purple. 
 
 "A welcome letter." Her Excellency's voice was 
 so gentle as to startle the servant. The Princess 
 tore open the envelope. As she read her face grew 
 almost kind. "Fortunata, she speaks of you. She 
 writes: 'You have, I understand, a charming niece, 
 the Contessina Fortunata Rivallo. I hear much of 
 her beauty, her lovely manners. I wish to know 
 her. In our youth you and I were so often together 
 that all those who are near to you, Prudenzia, must 
 be dear to me.' Adorable woman!" the Princess 
 cried, in a burst of enthusiasm, and she kissed the 
 letter repeatedly. She read on: "Ha! she mentions 
 your mother, Fortunata, says she remembers meet- 
 ing her." The Colibri grunted. "I have heard 
 your father tell of the interview. All through the 
 
 73
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 presentation, it seems, Annie had the hiccoughs. 
 Nevertheless, the Queen Mother wants to see you, 
 Fortunata; and you, too, Eugenio and by the 
 Madonna, Francesca as well. Francesca, I suppose, 
 must go. I am afraid that she must be shown." 
 
 "Oh, the dear, sweet, gracious Queen!" Fran- 
 cesca was transported. "Oh, Zia! What shall I 
 wear? My blue dress with the little, tiny polka- 
 dots!" And the poor little soul beamed north and 
 south in her joy. 
 
 "First," commanded the Princess, "lift off that 
 pompadour. It hangs down around your face like 
 a life-preserver. You will smother under it." 
 
 "And remember, Francesca," murmured Miss Bill- 
 ford, her finger on her lip, her head held on one side, 
 "remember, it is not the attire that makes the 
 gentlewoman, but her conduct, elegant, yet modest. 
 When our late Queen, the virtuous Victoria " 
 
 The Princess rapped with her fork on the drink- 
 ing glass. "Fortunata, Eugenio, the interview is for 
 this afternoon! You will see the only good woman 
 I have ever known, the only really good woman 
 who is not a bore, or a hypocrite, or a fool." 
 
 Eugenio looked toward his aunt. "I am a so- 
 cialist," he said, "or, rather, have just become one. 
 I can have little to say to a Queen, but I will go." 
 
 The Colibri had fallen back in her chair and, with 
 the uncouth manners peculiar to her, was scratch- 
 ing her nose with the edge of the envelope, her feat- 
 ures spread in a fatuous smile. "By- the- way, no 
 mention is made of our dear Marchesa. How does 
 that happen?" The old woman bent a little for- 
 ward, folded her arms and stared across the room, 
 
 74
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 intent, fierce. "Have a care, Antonia. It's no 
 good omen when the Queen Mother forgets you. 
 It means you're sinking, going down. It means 
 a shrugging when your name is spoken. The Queen 
 Mother is strict. She gave the Monte Chiaro the 
 Collar of the Virgin for giving up her lover. Fortu- 
 nata, don't I keep saying Billford, go away, you 
 don't understand this. Francesca, take Billford 
 away. Don't I keep saying, Fortunata, that the 
 first thing I know I'll have all Rome pointing the 
 finger at me. I'll be accused of harboring im- 
 morality, of letting vice grow rampant in my house. 
 You're so indiscreet, Antonia, so drivellingly fool- 
 ish. Can't you be happy without letting the whole 
 world know? Look at me, Antonia ! Per Dio, give 
 up digging in those flower-pots! I am speaking for 
 your good. Sangue di Dio! It's no use helping 
 those who won't be saved; you can't keep a pig 
 out of a trough." 
 
 "Nello," said Antonia, dreamily, pointing to the 
 tubs of oleander and myrtle, "in placing the plants, 
 try to have a conception of a harmonious whole." 
 
 "Yes, Signora Marchesa." 
 
 Antonia flung out her arms in sudden despair. 
 "Nello has no decorative genius, no idea of the 
 beautiful, Principessa!" she cried. 
 
 At the hour appointed by the Queen Mother, 
 Fortunata appeared and came swiftly down the 
 stairs to where the Princess stood in the hall lean- 
 ing on her cane, and blowing the smoke from her 
 cigarette through her brutal, trumpet-shaped nose. 
 Somehow, the mantle worn by the Contessina gave 
 her the look of being disguised, loaned her an air 
 
 75
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 discreet, mysterious. Next, Eugenio passed his 
 aunt with a bow, and, finally, led by Miss Billford, 
 Francesca appeared, washed within an inch of her 
 life, smelling of soap, shining from it. 
 
 "Do I look nice, aunt?" she asked, rather pite- 
 ously. 
 
 The Princess grasped her niece by the ear and 
 gave it a tweak. "You are antiseptic!" shouted her 
 Excellency, and burst into a boisterous laugh. 
 
 In the carriage Eugenio was leaning back non- 
 chalantly, his arm passed through the window- 
 strap, his long, delicate hand trembling to the 
 motion of the carriage. 
 
 "Ah," he was saying, "half of the ills we suffer 
 sprout from the throne. Down with royalty, I say! 
 I have joined a society. They pay me great respect. 
 I am the only aristocrat in it. I am like Shelley, 
 Fortunata!" he cried, shaking his hair back off his 
 forehead. "I dream of a new world where all men 
 are equal. Italy is in a stage of transition. We 
 are on a pilgrimage to something better. It is a 
 sad time we live in." 
 
 For such a weary pilgrim, Conte Rivallo wore very 
 modish boots. Meanwhile Francesca was droning: 
 "I must curtsey once, twice, thrice; I must not 
 interrupt; I must not contradict; I must not cross 
 my knees." 
 
 Fortunata answered both brother and sister po- 
 litely, but, in truth, she hardly heard them. She 
 was fighting her own problems. She was deep in 
 debt; the very cloak that enveloped her, the shoes 
 on her feet, the hat she wore a trophy of plumes 
 were all as good as stolen. She dreaded every mail. 
 
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 "Madame Rigmarole, Modiste of the Queen, en- 
 treats the Signorina Rivallo " "From Peaux, 
 Furrier to his Majesty: One ermine-lined mantle, 
 one muff, and boa of sables, etc." At first mere 
 billets doux, hints as to the passing of time, now 
 regular dunning bills, commands for payment, 
 threats. She could not hope for her income until 
 May an allowance of a few thousand lire was 
 meagre meat for all the ravening wolves she had to 
 feed. The future looked black to her. At moments 
 she was tempted to shift the weight of debt, to get 
 out of it all, to slip away with de Brillac, or with 
 some one of the other penniless men who dared her 
 to live with them on nothing. The prospect was 
 not inviting. She saw herself decamping from the 
 Continent, harassed for money, badgered by credit- 
 ors, dodging the law, like her father before her. 
 
 Why doesn't some one with money ever like me? 
 she thought. And she fell into a melancholy rev- 
 erie as the carriage drew up before the gates of the 
 palace of the Queen Mother. 
 
 As the trio drove home through the dusk, Eugenio 
 bent forward, seized Fortunata's wrist, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Ah, my sister, I was proud this afternoon to 
 remember that the Rivallos have been always ready 
 to die for King or Queen or country. As I sat there 
 and listened, and looked at her, I understood. It's 
 glorious to have some one to give your life for. 
 Think of us Italians for over one hundred years 
 cutting each other's throats for an Albizzi or a 
 Cosimo. Think of Lancaster and York! Think of 
 the Vieille Garde marching into Russia to turn to 
 
 77
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ice. Think of men that went to hell for Mary 
 Stuart. Isn't it fine; isn't it splendid; doesn't it 
 make thrills go up your spine!" The young man 
 threw back his head and flung out his arms wide. 
 
 In the court of the Palazzo Colibri the Duchessa 
 da Monte Chiaro's roans champed their bits. In 
 the sola the Princess and her crony, the Duchessa, 
 sat jowl to jowl in the twilight, their evil old faces 
 all but touching. They hissed scandal, venom, and 
 cackled over the abominations each whispered to 
 the other. At the sound of footsteps, "Fortunata! 
 Eugenic!" cried the Colibri. Coco stretched his 
 throat and let loose a volley of horrid oaths, while 
 Ganymede and Mimi sprang from under the table, 
 showing their gums. The Princess's beasts were as 
 malicious as her Excellency herself. 
 
 "And the interview?" questioned the Duchessa 
 da Monte Chiaro, nodding a mighty turban toward 
 Eugenio. 
 
 "The Queen is a sweet lady," Francesca was be- 
 ginning, when, with a brusque gesture, the Colibri 
 suppressed her. 
 
 The unhappy child was never allowed to get a 
 word in edgewise. 
 
 "You, Fortunata, tell us!" commanded her Ex- 
 cellency. 
 
 "What would you say, Zia," she asked, unclasp- 
 ing her cloak, "were I to tell you that I bring you 
 five thousand lire more a year? Would you thank 
 me? Would you lend me enough to pay my bills?" 
 
 The Princess was on her guard. "I should say it 
 was my due. You owe me more than you can ever 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 pay a debt of gratitude. All your life how many 
 years is it ? Well, no, we won't count I have given 
 you food and shelter, advice, interest, love, such as 
 angels only feel for each other." 
 
 "Zia," said Fortunata, "the gracious Queen told 
 me that after all the time you served her, it was 
 not right that your pension should be discontinued. 
 She begged you to accept five thousand lire from 
 her a year. Frankly, Zia, I was tactful this after- 
 noon your good luck is due to me, and the least 
 you can do is to lend me the money. Look at these 
 shoes, look at these gloves, look at this coat they 
 are not mine; I wear them at my peril. And see, 
 the shoes are half worn out." And with a farewell 
 glance that enveloped her audience, the young girl 
 trailed off in her clinging dress. 
 
 As Fortunata mounted the stairs, her attention 
 was caught by a line of light radiating from under 
 Antonia's door. She concluded that the Marchesa 
 was dressing for dinner. 
 
 "Aye chiquita!" sang Antonia, in her vibrant 
 contralto. Her voice floated out onto the landing, 
 repeating the melancholy love-song over and over. 
 Fortunata knocked. The plaint ceased. "Avanti!" 
 cried the Marchesa. Between the four candles of 
 her bureau Antonia was seated, enveloped in a 
 wine-colored dressing-gown. Her hair fell over her 
 shoulders, like the cloak of the Lady Godiva. With 
 a motion of her hand, she dismissed the servant. 
 
 "Don Luigi and my husband have not returned, 
 Fortunata?" 
 
 "No, Antonia." 
 
 And sitting on the window-sill, drawing back into 
 
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 the dim recesses of the curtains, the young girl 
 began to tell of the afternoon, of its adventures, its 
 triumphs. Curiously enough there was sympathy 
 between these two women. Their minds were op- 
 posed; their hearts were different; yet Fortunata 
 felt more affection for this half-sister than for any 
 one else on earth. 
 
 "Antonia," Fortunata was saying, "as I sat there 
 to-day, listening to the Queen, I kept thinking of 
 all the money I owed, of all the lies I've got to tell, 
 and the borrowing I've got to do, and the cheating, 
 and the haggling before I get free. I kept thinking 
 of the way we live here at home barking at each 
 other all the time and calling names, and I thought 
 of something else, too; you know what I mean I 
 wondered if she knew. I felt ashamed. I felt al- 
 most as though I were developing a conscience." 
 
 The Marchesa had turned toward her sister, and 
 was listening intently; her torrent of hair sweeping 
 down on either shoulder. The noble folds of her 
 dress set off her strange, melancholy beauty, the 
 beauty that haunts the Grecian friezes. Fortunata's 
 voice, young, earnest, reverberated in the sparsely 
 furnished room. "Yes, I felt sick; I thought for 
 the first time it must be pleasant to lead a decent 
 life." 
 
 After a pause, "What you say is beautiful," ob- 
 served the Marchesa, with the ponderous simplicity 
 peculiar to her. 
 
 "Oh, my sister!" Fortunata cried, emboldened; 
 "you give me the courage to ask you something I 
 never dared before. I beg you, in the name of the 
 Madonna, for your own good name, I beseech you 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 for me, for all of us, send Luigi Dacampagna back 
 to Florence send him away! Since he came he 
 has brought us only evil." 
 
 The Marchesa gave a sort of strangling cry, and 
 started to her feet. A trembling seized her, and 
 she shut her eyes as though divining the presence of 
 some hideous phantom, and opening them suddenly 
 big and burning on Fortunata. "Ah, if you could 
 hear what people say of you they speak your 
 name, Fortunata Rivallo, then they laugh. "That 
 flirt!' they say; 'she engages herself to men she 
 never means to marry. You may kiss her for the 
 asking.' For shame! For shame! And you a 
 young girl!" 
 
 Fortunata had risen. "That is not the same 
 thing," she said, coldly. 
 
 "True!" cried the Marchesa; "too true! A mar- 
 ried woman is free, while with a young girl it is 
 different." 
 
 "A difference there is, Antonia." Fortunata's 
 heart was thumping against her ribs. "I am 
 ashamed of nothing. Can you say the same?" 
 
 The Marchesa turned pale, as though she had 
 been struck a mortal blow. She fell back against 
 the window-frame, her hair enveloping her like a 
 shawl. 
 
 "Forgive me!" cried Fortunata. "I what is 
 that?" 
 
 From below came the sound of a brawl, a sten- 
 torian voice shouted, "Sangue di Dio! Take this! 
 and you take that!" and the cracking of blows. 
 
 Fortunata ran to the head of the stairs. She 
 came face to face with Luigi, who was springing up 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 the steps three at a time. At sight of her he took 
 off his hat and made a bow a bundle of lilacs under 
 his arm. 
 
 "It is nothing! At the races Guido lost. He has 
 drunk barolo. He would have fought the Duchessa 
 da Monte Chiaro's man but for me. Ecco!" 
 
 On hearing Luigi's voice, Antonia sprang to him 
 and caught him by the hand. "Do you see her?" 
 she asked, pointing to Fortunata. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" he answered, soothingly. While sup- 
 porting the Marchesa with one arm, he looked right 
 and left for a spot to put down his burden of flowers. 
 
 "Ah, Luigi!" cried Antonia, draping her arms 
 around his neck, "ought a young girl to nourish 
 unkind thoughts, wicked suspicions? Should she 
 accuse, rebuke her sister?" 
 
 Fortunata lost all patience. "A young girl can't 
 do this! A young girl can't do that! My life long 
 that's been drummed into me. Married or not, I'm 
 a human being!" 
 
 "I can't conceive the reason," declared the Colibri, 
 who by means of Eugenie's shoulder, the banister, 
 and her own gouty hands, was hoisting herself up 
 the stairs. "I can't conceive why it is that boots 
 figure so in intoxication. Drunken people are so 
 obsessed with their boots. They either want to take 
 them off or else to go to bed in them. Guido has 
 just" 
 
 "Ah, Principessa!" exclaimed Antonia, address- 
 ing the Colibri over Luigi's shoulder, "ought a young 
 girl to suspect evil, even to know what evil is?" 
 
 "Well, it depends," the Princess answered, judi- 
 ciously, "on where a young girl is brought up." 
 
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 "Luigi!" murmured the Marchesa. Laying her 
 palms on either side of his face, she held him at 
 arm's - length, looking profoundly into his eyes. 
 "Ho trovato! she is jealous. Fortunata is jealous 
 of such happiness as ours; the angels themselves 
 would be envious." 
 
 " ' She gave me a glance, a side-glance. 
 And I burn, I perish like a flame,'" 
 
 shouted Guido, and he was heard tumbling his way 
 up-stairs. 
 
 The tension in the air, the atmosphere of emotional 
 storm, the drunken voice that woke the echoes, all 
 went to the Princess's head like wine. She wagged 
 her cane at Fortunata. 
 
 "This is it, Antonia. Fortunata is afraid that 
 you will mar her chances. You'll bring the name 
 of Rivallo to shame, and she'll be penniless and ob- 
 scure, and an old maid." And she proceeded to 
 laugh in a highly uncanny fashion, flapping her 
 arms and screeching like a crow.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 " \ A 7" HO is the nice young man, Fortunata, I some- 
 
 YV times get a sight of around the palace?" 
 queried Miss Case one morning. 
 
 The girls were in Fortunata's bedroom. The 
 Contessina looked intently into the glass while 
 Hortense waved her cloudy hair. She was gifted 
 with submissive hair, silky and unusually thick. 
 Nevertheless, in pursuit of fashion, she wreathed 
 her head with the coronet braid, the puff, all the 
 latest vagaries. Her toilet-table was worthy of a 
 worn-out belle, and these wisps and strands and 
 switches suggested the trophies of a scalping Indian. 
 'Narrow, pale, dressy?" asked Fortunata. 
 'Yes, a young fellow with lots of hair." 
 'And a pointed chin? He's my brother." 
 'The Conte! Let me meet him some day, will 
 you, Fortunata?" 
 
 "He would be delighted, I know," said Fortu- 
 nata "a little closer to the temple, Hortense. Are 
 you going to the Monte Chiaro's to-night?" 
 
 "Not if I know it. It's one of her intellectual 
 jamborees." 
 
 "A regular literary orgy," admitted Fortunata. 
 "The Colibri says to have no reserve in your mind, 
 to go on intellectual sprees, and lay your soul bare 
 is just as improper as any other kind of debauch 
 
 84
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "The Monte Chiaro will have the place crushed 
 full of literary lights." 
 
 "Eugenio and I will be there." 
 
 "Then you'll find me there, too," averred Miss Case. 
 
 "Genius is a terrible malady, Fortunata," said 
 Eugenio that night, as he and his sister rolled up 
 the via Vittorio Emanuele in the carriage of the 
 Princess. "Ah," he continued, tragically, "I have 
 the obsession, the unrest, all the divine disquietude!" 
 
 "Si, Caro mio. Here we are." 
 
 An oblong of light faced them, and the Monte 
 Chiaro' s majordomo was defined in its midst. The 
 stream of guests branched off, the men to the left, 
 the women to the right, and they shouted to each 
 other as they shed their coats and wraps, some 
 joking, some complimenting, others a husband and 
 wife generally quarrelling, but not ungraciously. 
 ' ' Always late ! What stupidity ! ' ' half-reproachf ully , 
 half -caressingly, after the fashion of the South. 
 
 An atmosphere of discontent prevailed among the 
 guests; they appeared disgruntled, like children 
 who, on coming to a party, regret being there. In- 
 deed, it was the Monte Chiaro's night for entertain- 
 ing the litterati, playwrights, and aesthetes. Ob- 
 scure subjects were discussed Hamlet, for instance, 
 and the smile of La Giaconda. The world and art 
 co-mingled. Society swept into the reception-hall 
 looking self-sufficient, sleek, well-groomed, and well- 
 fed, while the students sidled in afterward, as though 
 conscious of their unkempt heads, their translucent 
 faces, and of the something dowdy and pathetic 
 which the ever restless brain gives to the body 
 
 85
 
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 Miss Case was entertaining a group who followed 
 her every word with appropriate gestures. She was 
 speaking English, and in the voice of a graphophone. 
 As Fortunata and Eugenio passed Pearl 'spied them, 
 and came after with that vigor of purpose peculiar 
 to the American. 
 
 "Hello, cutey!" 
 
 "Good -evening, Signorina. You are charming! 
 Pearl, this is my brother." 
 
 Miss Case wrenched Eugenio' s hand; he made 
 her a deep bow expressive of melancholy, of dis- 
 approbation, and then turned away. Pearl's eyes, 
 pale as flawed jewels, ate into his back. 
 
 "I can't understand," ventured Eugenio, in a 
 voice of maidenly reserve, "the attraction I possess 
 for women over six feet. Female grenadiers are 
 drawn to me; bones and sinews adore me; and for 
 a lantern jaw I prove irresistible." Therewith he 
 flicked some powder off his sleeve, with a smile sar- 
 castic yet coy. 
 
 The dawn was already in the streets, faint and 
 chilly, but the Monte Chiaro still kept calling for 
 recitations, for songs. By this time the audience 
 was fallen into a state of coma; but the performers 
 had worked themselves into a histrionic frenzy. 
 
 "Recite us something of yours, Conte!" cried the 
 Monte Chiaro, addressing Eugenio, in her brazen, 
 compelling voice. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, his face transfigured. Pro- 
 testing, he shrugged his inability, his lack of time 
 for composition, the undue length of his finer poems. 
 " Aye , Madonna ! Duchessa ! ' ' and he gesticulated with 
 all the violence of the artist and of the Southerner. 
 
 86
 
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 '"Curfew shall not' go it!" called Miss Case, as 
 though leading off a cheer. 
 
 The audience seconded her, clapping limply. 
 
 The young man stood in the centre of the group. 
 He had lost his foppish airs; his figure seemed to 
 expand; his eyes lightened and radiated with that 
 divine fire that can transfigure a face. He made no 
 gestures, and spoke in a voice devoid of conscious 
 expression. 
 
 The poem, roughly translated, was like this: 
 
 "THE SIREN 
 
 " He stood beside the waters, 
 
 The phosphorescent waters, 
 
 The waves like huge disporters 
 
 Were tumbling in the sea. 
 
 When in the starry stillness, 
 
 The moonless fragrant chillness, 
 The pale and slim Undine rose effulgent from the sea. 
 
 She was a merman's daughter, 
 
 The pride of all the water, 
 The prettiest and wickedest that ever swam the sea. 
 
 Her hair was green as sorrel, 
 
 And her breasts were tipped with coral, 
 Hers was the mystic beauty of the strange malignant sea 
 
 She put her arms around him, 
 
 And in her hair she wound him, 
 
 And her young strength enwound him, 
 
 Beside the salty sea. 
 
 The wild clouds overswept them 
 
 And the hours overslept them 
 And the great sun came riding out from the glorious sea. 
 
 Then siren most insidious, 
 
 False, fickle, and perfidious. 
 She turned her shoulder on him and sprang into the sea. 
 
 She let herself be courted 
 
 By mermen and disported 
 
 87
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 And rode her jolly dolphins way out into the sea 
 Poisonous, fatal fusion, 
 And her kiss was a delusion, 
 Wraith, spirit, and illusion, 
 She came not to the shore 
 And such is siren's fashion 
 To rent and haunt by passion, 
 To torment beyond compassion 
 Sojourners on the shore" 
 
 Eugenio ended, flinging out his arms, throwing 
 back his head. The applause came, sudden and 
 sharp, like a reverberation of musketry, and the 
 young man sat down. 
 
 "I like that," said Fortunata, proud of her 
 brother. 
 
 "E multo musicale!" murmured the guests, shak- 
 ing off their lethargy, and the party broke up. 
 
 The dawn was creeping through the streets as 
 brother and sister drove home. Eugenio kept say- 
 ing, "I know I shall ultimately be famous!" Fort- 
 unata's self-confidence, on the contrary, seemed 
 ebbing away. She was overcome with a sudden 
 melancholy, a sense of incompetence, of fatality. 
 
 Almost imperceptibly the winter became the 
 spring. Nature loves the South and tries to spare 
 Italy all the rude inclemencies. In the Colibri's 
 gardens the perfume of the lilac weighted the air. 
 Miss Case haunted the Palazzo. She and Fortunata, 
 arm in arm, threaded the box hedges. Warily Pearl 
 looked out under her pompadour for Eugenio, and 
 when they met she was all smiles, all genial hand- 
 gripping, while he looked at her feet and turned the 
 color of a rose. 
 
 88
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "He's a perfect hymn-book, that brother of yours," 
 she announced, one evening. "Will you see me to 
 the door, Conte?" she begged, with a languishing 
 look. 
 
 "He has a sore throat, Pearl," said Fortunata, 
 "and can't stand a draught." 
 
 "I'll lend him my marabout," laughed Miss Case; 
 and she took off her boa and lassoed Eugenio. 
 
 He came back looking very weak and sad. 
 
 "My poor brother, she'll marry you yet!" cried 
 Fortunata. "I see it in her eyes!" 
 
 Eugenio looked toward the glass. ' ' ' What a wom- 
 an wants/ you know." 
 
 "Come, you mustn't give way like this I will 
 help you." 
 
 Fortunata always kept her word. 
 
 It was an afternoon in April ; Miss Case had come 
 to tea. The table was set in the garden, in the shade 
 and fragrance of the box. The amount of food of- 
 fered was discreet, after the Continental fashion 
 a few morsels of bread-and-butter, a bit or two of 
 cake. The air was sweet and heavy, like incense. 
 The church bells rang lazily in the heat. Miss 
 Case's glance ran up and down Fortunata, took in 
 her dress, her hair, her quaint, faunish face. 
 
 Pearl had a disconcerting pair of eyes. They 
 met the look of others with that brutal sizing-up 
 stare, to be caught sometimes in a person when 
 looking at the back of an enemy. 
 
 "It's hot as the deuce!" she said; and she shot a 
 gimlet glance right and left. 
 
 She is looking for Eugenio, thought Fortunata; 
 and the Contessina cast down her eyes and served 
 
 89
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the tea with an air as gentle and modest as a seraph. 
 Doubtfully the girls smiled at each other across the 
 table, with that antagonism always existing between 
 the same ambition, the same pretence to beauty 
 and wit. They fell to talking, each trying secretly 
 to wound. Miss Case brought the conversation 
 round where she wished it. 
 
 "There's something nice about that brother of 
 yours," she said, in her jocose voice. 
 
 "Poor boy!" murmured Fortunata. "He has 
 been hopelessly in love for the last few years with 
 an English girl whom he knew at Oxford a small, 
 black-haired person, not pretty I should judge from 
 her photograph. He likes that type; his taste is so 
 poor that his attentions could flatter no one." 
 
 Miss Case was arrested. The bread-and-butter 
 stopped half-way to her mouth. 
 
 "A little more tea, dear Pearl?" warbled Fortu- 
 nata, and, lowering her voice, she bent across the 
 table. "The Comte de Brillac was here an hour 
 ago. He confided to me something but you can 
 guess what it was." 
 
 "Go ahead tell me." 
 
 "Oh, a woman always knows," assured Fortunata, 
 in her light, musical voice, which was, nevertheless, 
 always a little hoarse, like a flute with a sore throat. 
 "Guess, Pearl." 
 
 "I don't know cross my heart." 
 "Ah, that divine woman!' he told me, meaning 
 you. 'I adore her!'" And Fortunata, twirling an 
 imaginary mustache, hand on heart, gave an imita- 
 tion of the Frenchman's manner. 
 
 Pearl laughed, stimulated by amusement and vanity. 
 
 90
 
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 She left without exploring the garden paths, or 
 once asking after Eugenic. It was the old trick 
 played on Benedict and Beatrice; but it worked at 
 first to a miracle. 
 
 "What has, then, the Mademoiselle Case?" de 
 Brillac questioned of Fortunata at one of the Em- 
 bassies. "Her eyes pursue me like those of an 
 ogress." 
 
 "She loves you," said Fortunata. "She told me 
 so." 
 
 He was flattered. "She is ravishing," he ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 Yes, at first, it worked like a charm; but some- 
 how the plot leaked out. In a moment of con- 
 fidence did each, perhaps, tell the other, or did 
 Pearl's instinct flare the trick? There was a quar- 
 rel, love was at an end, and from that day Miss Case 
 turned her back on the Contessina, snorted when 
 Fortunata was within hearing, and talked of a girl 
 she knew who had brass enough to sink a ship. 
 
 In later years, when the Wheel of Fortune went 
 over the Contessina, when her old sins cropped up, 
 bills came down on her, her lies swamped her, when 
 the world muffled its voice and talked of the "little 
 Rivallo, poor child," the American, too, joined in 
 and pitied. She lowered her lids over her pale, 
 treacherous eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MEANWHILE, Luigi and Antonia went on lov- 
 ing and despising and making each other 
 wretched, after the fashion of two natures as op- 
 posed as the antipodes, yet which, drawn and held 
 by desire, mutually misunderstand, mutually tor- 
 ture each other. This passion was ill-fated from the 
 first, marred by jealousy, suspicions, quarrels more 
 degrading than the brawls of a tenement, relapses 
 to the old delicious ways, separations, long days 
 passed thinking of each other with a kind of aching 
 tenderness. The Marchesa knew her lover for what 
 he was shallow, inconstant and as for Luigi, he 
 was a martyr to her moods. Monday she was more 
 tender and melting than Juliet; Tuesday more un- 
 approachable than Diana; Wednesday she was the 
 faithful friend, the sympathizing sister; Thursday 
 an ascetic, a woman dead to the world her jealousy 
 only was constant. 
 
 "I cannot look my husband in the eyes!" was her 
 refrain. "I owe him everything, even to the bread 
 I eat" and, she might have added, even to the 
 maintenance of her lover. "If you loved me, 
 Luigi," she told him, "we would go together to a 
 country far off, where no one could ever find us 
 again. We would live for each other." 
 
 The prospect of ending his days amid the stern 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 wonders of nature, in the company of a jealous 
 woman and nasty savages, was most distasteful to 
 the frivolous Luigi. The Marchesa was a victim to 
 presentiments and premonitions of ill, dreadful 
 dreams, warnings for the future. "Unless we part," 
 she would say, "we are lost." With great sim- 
 plicity, much fervor, and many tears, she protested 
 that her desire now was to retire to a convent, and 
 she besought her lover to enter a monastery. The 
 idea of Luigi in a saintly brotherhood, having suf- 
 fered the tonsure, his dapper waist girt with the 
 cord of obedience, poverty, and chastity, was sadly 
 incongruous. 
 
 Like a sleuth-hound she tracked him. "Why did 
 you glance at Fortunata as you did?" she would 
 say, turning pale and beginning to tremble. He 
 protested: "Antonia, I don't know what you mean. 
 Davvero!" And, indeed, Luigi could no more help 
 giving a woman a kind look than he could avoid the 
 ripple in his hair. 
 
 At dinner the Marchesa entertained the family 
 with a dissertation on suicide and the most efficacious 
 mode of self-destruction, whether by water, fire, or 
 steel. Eugenio was all for laudanum, and Fortunata 
 for chloral. "The surest is rat-poison," yelled the 
 Princess; "and take some yourself, Antonia." 
 
 In a fit of jealousy Antonia had sent Luigi away, 
 and for many a day he was absent from Rome. 
 That night the Marchesa did not close her eyes, and 
 the servants said that they heard her pacing the 
 floor, crying and praying, into the dawn. Next 
 morning she was punctual at lunch, a rare occur- 
 rence with her a proof that she had entered upon 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 the strenuous life. She wore a severe habit of black, 
 her hair was modestly dressed, her face-powder and 
 the rouge of her lips had been forgotten. 
 
 Like the Magdalen, the Marchesa turned to her 
 God. A daughter of sorrow she came to the church. 
 But she no longer knew her former ecstasies, her 
 raptures of faith. Before the month was over, Don 
 Luigi was reinstated in the palace. As for Don 
 Luigi, he had always held that one woman is worth 
 another, provided she be young and beautiful, and 
 love with all the strength of her senses. Yet now 
 he found, and with a kind of terror, that other kisses 
 were not to him the same he was tied body and 
 soul to this stormy, haggard siren. There were 
 drawbacks. With Antonia love must be eternally 
 protested. Devotion must be at high- water mark. 
 
 To Luigi, after the tempestuous Antonia, Fortu- 
 nata was restful and refreshing. He thought her 
 neatly proportioned, not only in body, but in senti- 
 ments her gestures, her little ways attracted him. 
 Her utter indifference, her unapologetic self-ab- 
 straction, held for him a poignant charm. Though 
 the property of another she took no interest in him; 
 she found him common, flighty, and a home- wrecker 
 by profession. Nevertheless, she could not forbear 
 to play for an audience, and would have shown off 
 before a setting hen. 
 
 One morning, noisy with chimes and church bells, 
 Luigi stood at his window, when among the box 
 hedges he caught a glimpse of Fortunata's slim 
 silhouette. Her head was averted. Luigi was seized 
 with an obstinate desire to see her face. He left his 
 room and met her at one of the turnings of the path. 
 
 94
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Good-morning, Fortunata." 
 
 "Good-morning, Luigi." 
 
 "More charming than ever, were that possible, 
 Signorina. You slept well?" 
 
 She thanked him, "Yes," and hoped he had done 
 likewise. 
 
 He joined her, and for a time they walked on in 
 silence. He had a thought: 
 
 "What a beautiful day." 
 
 She found it so, too; and to punctuate she rolled 
 up her coffee-colored eyes. 
 
 "Santa Maria, you are lovely that way. Look 
 up again." 
 
 Fortunata, always obliging, rolled up her eyes and 
 then down again with entire composure. 
 
 "No, I have never seen a woman with your eyes. 
 I have often thought so you'll forgive me if this 
 doesn't please you " 
 
 For the first time during their talk she looked at 
 him directly, though it was only a fugitive glance, 
 and through her eyelashes. 
 
 "Will you marry me?" 
 
 He was as surprised as she, and they came to a 
 standstill in the middle of a step. A proposal in 
 Italy is merely a compliment the man proves he 
 dares a risk. Fortunata had encouraged Luigi with 
 all her powers, and no one was more conscious than 
 she herself of the subtle methods employed. Never- 
 theless, she was indignant at this transference of 
 homage from sister to sister this infidelity to a 
 liaison, world-accepted and respected as a family 
 tie. She did not answer. The bells' hurried clap- 
 pers clanged and hammered. 
 
 95
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I am sorry; I did not mean to overhear!" And 
 from the hedge emerged a round and guilty face, 
 none other than Francesca's. "I have been pluck- 
 ing flowers," cried the simple creature, and she held 
 up four dried dandelions. 
 
 "Come over the hedge," said Fortunata, and 
 when Francesca had scrambled through, the Con- 
 tessina draped her arm about her sister's neck and 
 turned from Luigi as from a contaminating presence. 
 
 Later Fortunata said to the perturbed Francesca: 
 
 "Sister, let me feel your head." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "To find out if you have the secretive bump." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "The bump that keeps secrets." 
 
 "Well, feel." 
 
 "You have, you have! Most markedly! And 
 now promise me never to breathe to a living soul 
 what you heard this morning." 
 
 And Francesca promised, fixing on Fortunata eyes 
 sincere, but as round and inexpressive as marbles.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 OEPTEMBER was come again, and the air was 
 O damp, funereal, inspiring a foreboding, a nos- 
 talgia for the summer and the heat. The trees 
 of the Palazzo garden, overtaken in their summer 
 finery, shook off their rustic splendor. 
 
 For all her suitors, for all her brilliant success, 
 three seasons had seen the Contessina. She was 
 twenty- two years old, no juvenile age in Italy, 
 where girls marry young, and yet she was still the 
 Signorina Rivallo. She counted on her marriage, 
 she trusted to it, she built on it. It should make 
 her influential, envied, free to spend and, in the 
 Italian spirit, to love whom she chose. She looked 
 far and near, still the husband answering all the 
 requirements was nowhere to be seen. The Con- 
 tessina had been brought up to believe that the 
 object of a woman's life is to marry well. She had 
 no other ambition. Her aim was to find a husband 
 wealthy, well born, influential, if possible. Her 
 taste was easily jarred. He must have no boring 
 faults, none of the ways of the boor or of the pro- 
 fessor. She would have liked him young, preferably 
 handsome. 
 
 She was only twenty-two, yet at moments she felt 
 old, fagged, disheartened. She feared to end on 
 the matrimonial bargain - counter. As years went 
 7 97
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 by, and Fortunate, became neither a princess nor a 
 multimillionairess, she began to fall in her aunt's 
 esteem. Never was there such a toady to success 
 as the Mentor. Although at a ball Fortunata was 
 more popular than ever, yet through vanity her 
 reputation had suffered. She was said to be quick 
 to jilt, quicker to flirt, and at her name old ladies 
 wagged their heads. Her style, the chaperones de- 
 clared, was not what it should be. Not that they 
 called her vulgar, loud, or fast. It was her exag- 
 gerated elegance they found fault with. 
 
 Barely of medium height and of an exaggerated 
 slenderness, yet she had nothing of that fragility 
 of aspect peculiar to small women. Her rounded 
 form did not show a bone; her throat was like a 
 small column; her bust curved out nobly; her every 
 gesture spoke vitality; her waist was like a reed; 
 her hips slipped down to nothingness. She was as 
 lithe and subtle as a viper. She might have danced 
 a saraband and rapped her blond head on the floor. 
 The immature charm of some shy woodland creature 
 appealed in Fortunata. The pale, light-brown hair 
 framed a low, broad brow; the cheek-bones, some- 
 what marked, dwindled into a very pointed chin. 
 The skin was of an effulgent pallor. The nose, too 
 short, was only redeemed by an irresistible mouth 
 full of curves and ripples, and at the corners un- 
 twisting like a bow. But it was in her eyes, in 
 laughter sly and animal, in repose full of a slumber- 
 ous fire, that lay the singular allurement of this 
 face, although they were neither large nor beautiful. 
 Deep-set and far apart, under straight brows, their 
 exaggerated pupils held the blackness of night. So 
 
 98
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 compelling was their glance, that when she lowered 
 her lids, and her long lashes swept her cheeks, her 
 face assumed a bare, one might almost say a naked, 
 aspect. 
 
 Late one afternoon Fortunata, having parted with 
 one of her admirers in the dark hall, returned to the 
 sola. She was smiling to herself and pinning back 
 a strand of hair. The room was no longer empty. 
 Guido paced forward and back, with his falsely 
 military air. In the dusk his waistcoat made a 
 white blotch. He was growing stout, but after an 
 indefinite fashion one might say that he had a low 
 chest, rather than that he had a stomach. Fortu- 
 nata stood at the window, still with her reminiscent 
 smile. Dacampagna turned on her. 
 
 "Your visitor seemed in no hurry to get away." 
 
 From under the shadow of her hair she glanced 
 at him. 
 
 "No?" A thought struck her and she threw 
 back her head and laughed. 
 
 "Always a new dress!" he said; and under the 
 pretence of feeling the material, he passed his hand 
 along her sleeve. He stood close to Fortunata, 
 looking down at her. The carnation in his button- 
 hole brushed against her cheek. "How can you 
 afford them?" 
 
 "Heigh-ho, I can't!" Her voice was very young. 
 "San Angelo is staring me in the face." Instantly 
 she regretted that she had spoken, and was over- 
 taken with a sort of shame. 
 
 "If you want money, why don't you come to me ?" 
 
 "You?" With surprise she blushed in a manner 
 that became her. 
 
 99
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "How much is it?" He stood straddle-legged, 
 all importance and condescension. 
 
 She hesitated, her head averted, her short profile 
 defined against the unshuttered window. She was 
 tempted to modify the sum, to make a half -ad- 
 mission yet why, after all, tell an unnecessary lie ? 
 
 "Ten thousand, eight hundred lire!" 
 
 He whistled and drew back from her, scanning 
 her figure. From his pocket he took a check-book, 
 and, turning his back, sat down at the table. His 
 arm moved as though he were writing. She con- 
 tinued to look out of the window and faltered like 
 a child caught in error. 
 
 "I lie awake at night trying out of nothing to 
 make enough to pay Cabriolet and Cazot, and all 
 the other cormorants." 
 
 "This will make it all right." And he came to 
 her, in his hand a slip of paper. Habitually, .he was 
 the meanest of men. Her astonishment bordered 
 on alarm. 
 
 "Guido, you are too kind, but I couldn't no, 
 really, I can't!" 
 
 His brow reddened; he growled and blustered. 
 Did she imagine he was offering her money for 
 politeness? Perhaps she thought he was too poor 
 to help her ? What other friends did she count on ? 
 
 Still she demurred. With an oath he flung down 
 the check and tramped toward the door, muttering, 
 "Take it or leave it!" She followed him, protesting 
 her inability to pay him till May. 
 
 "I'm not a hard creditor." His good-humor was 
 restored. 
 
 "You see, Guido, my allowance " 
 zoo
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Oh, we'll talk of that later." 
 
 She laughed and began to talk of the latest gossip. 
 He had never known her so diverting. By a tacit 
 understanding neither mentioned the ten thousand 
 lire, and Fortunata waited until Dacampagna had 
 left the room before she picked up the check. She 
 felt that she was fingering blood money, though she 
 could hardly have told why. 
 
 Fortunata's ideas of money were of the haziest, 
 quite opposed to her methodical business-like clear- 
 ness in all other matters. She lacked all under- 
 standing of the value of money. With her income 
 she was so careless, so extravagant, so lavish as to 
 be constantly in debt. During her father's dis- 
 reputable lifetime the family finances had been run 
 in the wildest way. The Conte would come home, 
 his last lira gone. In the house every available sou 
 had been gathered, garnered, scraped together, and 
 finally parted with. But Fortune, who had made 
 Rivallo her protege, invariably turned to this most 
 worthless and lucky of men either certain stocks 
 of the Contessa's, thought to be valueless, dribbled 
 in a little money, or the Conte, by means of his 
 blandishments and lovely manners, induced some 
 friends to trust him with an inconsiderable sum. 
 A run of luck at the gaming-table would reinstate 
 him, and very splendid he managed to be for a week 
 or so. 
 
 From this early example Fortunata was possessed 
 of the idea that the deeper one is in ruin, and the 
 huger one's debts, the nearer one's succor and the 
 more dazzling. "The darkest hour is before the 
 dawn" had been one of her father's favorite quota- 
 
 101
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 tions. At his death the Conte had piously declared 
 a belief that the Lord would provide for the widow 
 and orphans. The orphans, indeed, were in no very 
 great straits their grandfather having settled a 
 yearly allowance upon them but the poor widow 
 was destitute. 
 
 Check in hand, the Contessina next morning set 
 out to put herself right with the world. She went 
 about all day dribbling a little money here and 
 there, just to show that she could pay that is, if 
 she wanted to. Before evening she had ordered 
 a new dress and ear-rings, and an aigrette such 
 an aigrette! She came home to find Dacampagna 
 in the hall on the watch for her. He was very com- 
 plimentary, and from that day it seemed to her 
 that she was never free from his vulgar gallantry, 
 from the stare of his plebeian eyes. 
 
 September went by. Guido's familiar looks and 
 airs of possession, his odious compliments, his in- 
 timate hand-shakes, his sly thrusts in the ribs to 
 point out this or that, underwent a change. Fortu- 
 nata got black scowls from him, gloomy, brooding 
 stares, ending with an ominous flushing of the face. 
 He let fall several times hints, and these the most 
 indelicate, on the dishonesty of not discharging 
 debts, of receiving a price and giving no payment 
 in return. Fortunata was at her wits' end. There 
 was no prospect of money coming her way for 
 months. She avoided him and affected a cold, 
 haughty manner, an unwise policy, as after events 
 proved. He waylaid her in the halls with muttered 
 discontent, stopped her on the stairs with words 
 half -brutal, half -admiring. He dogged her in the 
 
 102
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 streets, to theatres, to balls. His eyes ferreted her 
 out and would not give her up. She grew sick of 
 watching out for him, of scurrying away at his ap- 
 proach, of listening to his step at home and dodg- 
 ing as it neared of feeling at heart a debtor, a 
 guilty creature. 
 
 One afternoon Dacampagna came in drunker 
 than ever, and staggering up to Fortunata's room, 
 roared out for a sight of her. He battered at her 
 door with his fists, his feet, until finally she was 
 forced to thrust out her pretty head. She had 
 washed her hair, and her brow was still enswathed 
 in a towel. At sight of her Guido hiccoughed out 
 that she was more beautiful by all the saints than 
 the portrait down-stairs of Beatrice Cenci in a turban. 
 
 Next day at lunch a glance at Dacampagna did 
 not reassure Fortunata, who had spent much fever- 
 ish thought on her present dilemma. He was in 
 his pink coat, having come in from hunting; his 
 eyes smouldered. He followed her every gesture 
 with a look at once covetous and jeering. 
 
 Kind, garrulous Miss Billford declaimed on the 
 prodigious progress Francesca had made in the 
 French language. "My pupil, Excellency," de- 
 clared the governess, solemnly, "is acquainted with 
 that delightful, though infantile, fiction Les Mal- 
 heurs de Sophie literally translated, the Mishaps 
 or Misadventures of Sophia." 
 
 "She reads more than that," the Princess opined. 
 "Francesca has reached that age when her litera- 
 ture is kept under the mattress Willie, Guy de 
 Maupassant, Octave Mirbeau. I am ready to wager 
 that that mattress is as lumpy as a camel." 
 
 103
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I assure you, no, Princess," intervened Fortu- 
 nata. 
 
 Francesca burst into a flood of tears. "No one 
 loves me! My father is dead! I am half an or- 
 phan!" sobbed she. 
 
 "Half an orphan, true!" ruminated the Princess, 
 grown pensive. "One might almost say wholly. 
 Your mother is moribund. I wouldn't stake a false 
 lira on her life. But why do you weep? As for 
 me, that my parents are long dead I am deeply 
 grateful. Were they still living what an age would 
 be theirs ! What decrepitude, what annoyance mine, 
 what expense! Besides, an orphan's condition is not 
 unusual. At this table we all are as good as orphans. 
 Are you not an orphan, Billford?" 
 
 "Alas, Excellency, when I was but a child " 
 
 "Exactly; so I had imagined." And the Prin- 
 cess lighted a cigarette, inflating her cheeks like a 
 masque of the North Wind in a fury. ' ' Not one lit- 
 tle puff, Billford ? Singular, when you know in your 
 heart you long to smoke a hookah ?" With a back- 
 scraping of their chairs, the ladies rose, while the 
 gentlemen sat over their wine. Guido forestalled 
 Luigi and opened the door. 
 
 As Fortunata passed him last, he crammed into 
 her hand something sharp-edged, that proved to be 
 a note. "After lunch be in the sala," she read. 
 "This sort of thing has been going on long enough. 
 I have a right to speak with you more right than 
 most people, and I will. I'll stand no more of this 
 treatment. Do you think I'm a dog?" 
 
 Her taste was offended. She was for disregarding 
 the letter. Yet, thought she, the day of reckoning 
 
 104
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 must come; better face him out now. Into the 
 sala, then, obediently she went. She racked her 
 brain for an ingenious, a plausible excuse. She had 
 so grown to dread her creditor that the sight of his 
 riding-cap thrown on the divan made her feel sick. 
 She had not been three minutes to herself when in 
 swaggered Dacampagna, slapping his riding-boots 
 with his crop. Coming close up to her, he threw 
 his whip down on the table, and crossing his arms, 
 looked her up and down. 
 
 "I have had enough of this!" he cried, quoting 
 his letter. 
 
 "By this, what do you mean ?" she asked, fencing. 
 
 "Che diavolo! you understand me well enough!" 
 
 "Marchese," she cried, very pale, "you shall use 
 no such language to me!" 
 
 Guido was a coward. "Well, you've treated me 
 so badly, so badly, davvero!" he expostulated. "A 
 man loses patience in the end." 
 
 "If you mean I have not paid you what I owe 
 you," she replied, haughtily, "your patience, Mar- 
 chese, shall not be strained much longer. Reassure 
 yourself, any day I expect " 
 
 "The money may go to the deuce. I'll never 
 feel the want of a few beggarly lire. Keep them 
 you're welcome to them. No, no, Fortunata, what 
 cuts me is your stand-off manner, your don't-touch- 
 me airs. Why, you won't speak to me any more; 
 you treat me like a cur. Sangue di Dio! it isn't 
 fair." And he advanced upon her with the redden- 
 ing of the brow she had grown to dread. ' ' You shall 
 ask my pardon. Yes, you shall. You cruel, tan- 
 talizing, lovely little witch!" 
 
 105
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 He was so near that she could feel his breath upon 
 her face. She could draw away no farther, having 
 backed against the tapestry. 
 
 "Upon my sacred honor, I'm bewitched!" he said, 
 in a maudlin voice. "You've fascinated me, you 
 little devil! I shut my eyes, and your face jumps 
 up in the darkness. I'm insane about you!" 
 
 "It's not fair, Guido, as things are, to talk to me 
 this way. Let me by, Guido!" she pleaded. 
 
 "First kiss and make up." 
 
 "Guido, let me by!" 
 
 "First kiss!" And he put his thick arms about 
 her. 
 
 "You're mad!" she cried, turning her face rapidly 
 from side to side. 
 
 "I am mad you're to blame." 
 
 She was cold and sick with fury. She stretched 
 her hand to one side and caught from the table the 
 riding-crop. 
 
 He was deathly afraid of any weapon, and he 
 released her as though she were a live coal. 
 
 In the mean time Miss Billford and Francesca had 
 gone back to their studies. The governess com- 
 bined history and geography in one lesson. Fran- 
 cesca and her instructress were proceeding on an 
 imaginary trip through Germany at present, and 
 were come as far as Cologne. Looking over her 
 glasses, the governess let her imagination run riot, 
 depicting the martyrdom and death of the eleven 
 thousand virgins. The Princess, who was passing, 
 stopped to listen, leaning on her cane, a cigarette 
 in her mouth. 
 
 "To think, dear aunt," said Francesca, who was 
 106
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 still agog, "to think of all those nice virgins buried 
 under the cathedral!" 
 
 "How many virgins?" from her Excellency. 
 
 "Eleven thousand, poor, dear things!" 
 
 "Pshaw!" said the Princess. "I don't believe 
 there ever were so many." 
 
 At this moment in came Fortunata all of a tremble. 
 
 "Miss Billford, can you give me a minute? Will 
 you excuse us, Zia?" 
 
 The young girl caught the governess by the hand 
 and led her into the embrasure of the window. "You 
 can help me. Will you do so?" 
 
 "My little Fortunata!" cried the kind old lady. 
 
 "I owe ten thousand, eight hundred lire. Yes, I 
 know, it's a great deal. Have you it? Will you 
 lend it to me?" 
 
 "Ten thousand lire! I have more than that." 
 Billford was all of a flutter, overjoyed to be thought 
 useful. "I am happy to be of service" the voice 
 grew shy "to my favorite pupil." 
 
 "Thank you! Thank you!" Fortunata seized 
 the governess's hand, and with the pretty manners 
 of the South, kissed it. She could go to Dacampagna 
 now and hand him back his money. That very 
 evening she gave him the check. Her polite smile 
 put Guido ill at ease.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 FORTUNATA'S conscience was hardly more at 
 ease. "I shall pay you soon, Miss Billford," 
 she would say. 
 
 The governess avoided all thanks with old- 
 fashioned courtesy. October, November went past, 
 and never a lira came Fortunata's way. As for that 
 brilliant match she was forever counting upon, her 
 prospects were dwindled to two insolvent officers 
 and a consumptive. She was in debt again to the 
 modiste and dunned by the bootmaker. Her allow- 
 ance in far-off May could not set her straight now. 
 She had taken almost everything the governess pos- 
 sessed. The old lady was in straits to have her shoes 
 mended and to buy her gloves. 
 
 One morning Fortunata passed Miss Billford listen- 
 ing in the hall to a dressmaker. The woman had an 
 English clientele, and visited the palace with fuddy- 
 duddy waists and snuffy kerchiefs, to which vanities 
 good Billford was given. 
 
 "This body," Fortunata overheard the governess 
 say, "is quite sweet." 
 
 "Only forty lire," tempted the seller. 
 
 "Ah, well, I may not have it now. And, perhaps, 
 after all, it isn't suitable." 
 
 Fortunata felt an ache at her heart. She went 
 to her room and set her mind to work. I can't 
 
 108
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 screw a lira out of the Colibri, she thought, and 
 Antonia gives everything to Luigi. The Contessina 
 was remarkable for her imitation of handwritings. 
 The Princess's signature, an erratic scrawl, like that 
 of a person suffering from epilepsy, could be counter- 
 feited why not write "Prudenzia Colibri" on a 
 check and draw the required sum? After paying 
 her debt, she would confess. Her aunt and she were 
 friendly rascals, and would not fail each other. 
 Once married she could square herself with the Prin- 
 cess, and then who would be any the worse ? Forgery, 
 stealing, was far from the girl's conscience. She had 
 found the solution of the problem. Such a simple 
 way out of all this mess. She wondered she had 
 never thought of it before. 
 
 Two days later Fortunata, with the look of a 
 good child, trotted into her aunt's study. She had 
 come from outdoors. Her collar turned up to her 
 ears; her glance demure and feminine. The Prin- 
 cess, a bundle of finery, bent over her writing-desk, 
 a pen in her gouty hand. She was correcting a letter. 
 To adjust her sight she moved the paper forward, 
 then back, as though playing a trombone. 
 
 "Carrissima Zia," wheedled Fortunata, "I have 
 drawn ten thousand, eight hundred lire in your 
 name." 
 
 The Colibri let out a howl like that of a dog 
 robbed of a bone. 
 
 "Yes, wasn't it shocking of me?" Fortunata ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 The feathers, poised upright on the Princess's 
 head, trembled like the feelers of some monster 
 insect. 
 
 109
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Ten thousand, eight hundred lire! I'm ruined! 
 I'm lost!" And she beat her breast. It resounded 
 like a board. "What more have you come for? 
 Here are my rings; here are my bracelets!" And 
 she tore the jewels from her swollen hands. 
 
 "Forgive me! Be a little patient! I will pay 
 you, on my honor!" 
 
 "Honor!" The Colibri gave a sort of screech. 
 
 "Ah, if you only knew! I was driven to it. 
 Carillot threatened to sue me. There was a ball 
 night after night. I had to have the clothes." 
 
 "Just like your father. Ugo could do shabby 
 things, but he couldn't wear them." And the Prin- 
 cess fell to thinking, holding her jewels on her 
 knees. Her smile was reminiscent, melancholy, the 
 smile of the old when the past surges back. In 
 fancy she was again with her brother, plotting to 
 outwit him. Her thoughts were with her friends 
 a company of rascals, talented, jolly knaves, all dead, 
 all gone. 
 
 Fortunata ventured to kneel closer to her aunt's 
 foot-stool. "I am afraid that your rings may fall 
 and be stepped on, carissima." 
 
 "Go away from here!" shrieked the Princess, 
 simulating distrust; and she put on her jewels. 
 "Ungrateful child!" She started in to shake, to 
 whimper, as old women do on the stage. 
 
 "You sha'n't lose. Wait till I'm married," quoth 
 Fortunata. 
 
 Her Excellency let off a volley of invectives. It 
 seems she did not count on Fortunata's bridal. 
 
 "Oh, Zia, I was so tormented, the shop-people 
 were so rude!" 
 
 no
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Cheated, robbed!" wailed the Colibri, relapsing 
 into the old woman. Wiping her eyes, she wrote a 
 statement in Fortunata's name, admitting the 
 forgery of a check for ten thousand, eight hundred 
 lire, and promising to pay when circumstances would 
 permit. "And as for interest," said the Colibri, 
 her features spread in a crafty smile, "I'll let it go 
 at eight per cent." 
 
 "As you please, Zia," warbled Fortunata. 
 
 "Write your name here." 
 
 The young girl caught up the pen and signed. 
 Her cloudy hair brushed her aunt's face. 
 
 The Princess folded the paper and closed it up in 
 an iron box. "I have lives here." Her voice was 
 a whisper, and she added, even more softly, "Here, 
 under my hand, human lives." Her eyes shone 
 with the crazy love of power that possessed her. 
 
 Fortunata made for the door. In fancy she al- 
 ready heard Billford's shy thanks. 
 
 The Princess called after her: "I give you fair 
 warning, Fortunata. Sign my name again and I 
 promise you a rest cure. You shall repose in 
 prison!" 
 
 "That's just," replied Fortunata. 
 
 "And a word of advice. Your first season you 
 might have settled yourself comfortably. You 
 thought, 'I'm getting prettier, I'll wait.' A fallacy. 
 Your best years are going. Hurry! You've found 
 it all too easy. Look out! Before you know it, 
 you will have been young a long time. Ah, you 
 have been wasteful. I had you better broken in 
 than any other girl in Rome. And you must take 
 to smoking, to drinking, to dancing, like Salome. 
 
 in
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Antonia's liaison drags you down. Who's to look 
 out for you? Not your mother, tied in a true 
 lover's knot with her intercostal neuralgia. Your 
 chances are slipping, slipping past. Time is gain- 
 ing on you. Hurry!" 
 
 The Princess beat the iron box and chanted, 
 "Hurry! Hurry!" like an eerie incantation. 
 
 "Heavens," Fortunata declared, "how nervous 
 you make me! Well, I don't regret one of them! 
 Old spooks they were, all of them." 
 
 "Some were old. Widows, praise God, are made, 
 not born," and the Princess dismissed her niece with 
 a bow of her opulent wig. "You'll go through the 
 woods and take up with a rotten stick in the end."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WAS it a cry shrill, piercing or the whistle of 
 a factory? Fortunata, in the deep sleep of 
 morning, drowsing deliriously, started into con- 
 sciousness. She lay listening, the sun motes jigging 
 over her counterpane. There it came again a 
 scream on the back of another. Gripped with terror, 
 she sprang from the bed, threw on a wrapper, broke 
 out of her room, and ran into Miss Billford. 
 
 "It's Antonia!" cried the Contessina, dishevelled 
 and white with sleep. 
 
 "It is the voice of our dear Marchioness, or I am 
 much mistaken." 
 
 Fortunata hurried on in the direction of the cries. 
 Persistent, unashamed, the screamer stretched her 
 throat; the Palazzo reverberated. On the land- 
 ing Fortunata caught sight of Eugenio, leaning over 
 the banister, listening. At his side a group of ser- 
 vants Nello, Hortense, Fidelio, Mariana, and the 
 others, frozen to attention. The door of the Prin- 
 cess's apartments, giving on the landing, creaked 
 open. Her Excellency thrust out her head, swathed 
 in something white. The sausage curls that habit- 
 ually hung over either ear dwarfed the size of her 
 face. Now, all unframed, her cheeks appeared 
 amazingly large, swollen. 
 
 "What's all this?" 
 8 113
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Mariana, the cook, threw up her hands. "Ah, 
 Signora Principessa! Ah, Eccellenza! The Signora 
 Marchesa passes me but now on the stairs. 'I am 
 robbed!' wails the Signora Marchesa. 'I am rob- 
 bed!' And she cries like a child under the knife- 
 aye, aye, like a child." All unconscious, Mariana 
 wagged her head, goggling up her eyes. "The 
 Signora Marchesa " 
 
 "Basta! basta!" Nello interrupted. "It is im- 
 possible, Eccellenza. There have been no thieves 
 here." 
 
 The Princess looked about her furtively, pursed 
 up her lips, drew in her bandaged head, and shut 
 the door. 
 
 Nello threw high his hands. "Contessina, it is 
 certain, the poor Signora Marchesa has been looked 
 on by evil eyes." 
 
 The other servants made the sign of the cross. 
 
 "This is superstition, my good man." Here Bill- 
 ford came up, short of breath, but conscientious. 
 
 "The Signor Marchese has not come back from 
 Florence, Nello?" Fortunata questioned, for Guido 
 was gone to see his mother, or so he said. That 
 mother! The Dacampagna brothers could never 
 have got along without her. 
 
 The old servant shook his head. "Contessina, 
 no. Guardi, the Signora Marchesa walks, she 
 walks!" And he pointed to the hall beneath. 
 
 Fortunata bent over the rail. 
 
 A figure passed below, shaking high its hands, as 
 though holding a tambourine. It strode out of 
 sight, emitting long-drawn, cries, like an animal in 
 pain. 
 
 114
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Francesca came up, and the Contessa, the latter 
 carrying a mahogany box, filled with her moss 
 agates, probably. 
 
 "Where is the fire?" cried Francesca. 
 
 The figure reappeared. It stood directly beneath 
 them, inert and abruptly silent. 
 
 Fortunata said: "I shall go down to her." 
 
 Nello looked encouragement. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs Fortunata came face to 
 face with the Marchesa. Antonia was like the ghost 
 of some one once familiar. 
 
 "My sister, what is it?" Fortunata took her by 
 the hands. 
 
 Antonia's face grew more recognizable. Tears 
 welled up in her eyes. 
 
 "Maria Immaculata! You are suffering, Antonia; 
 you are in sorrow?" It was Don Luigi's voice. 
 He had stepped in from the street by the open 
 door. 
 
 At sight of him Antonia let go of Fortunata. 
 "Ah, Luigi mio, our saint has forsaken us!" She 
 took him by the hand and led him into the sola, the 
 curtain falling into place behind them. 
 
 Fortunata shrugged and came up the stairs. She 
 shrugged a second time under the fire of questions. 
 "It's the Sirocco," said Eugenio; "I'm nervous as 
 a cat." And the servants disbanded. Billford, 
 puzzled but relieved, went off with Francesca and 
 the Contessa, who kept asking, "Is the fire out?" 
 in the loud, hopeless voice of the deaf. 
 
 The doors closed, the echoes died away; the 
 Palazzo, accustomed to these sudden squalls, ceased 
 to reverberate. 
 
 "S
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 At the colazione Don Luigi smiled over the table, 
 unruffled, fresh-colored, debonair. No one ques- 
 tioned him; the event of the morning was almost 
 forgotten. In the Palazzo Colibri tears, cries, 
 tantrums were the incidents of the day. The 
 Marchese Dacampagna, however, was absent; nor 
 did the Princess Colibri put in an appearance. 
 
 That afternoon at tea-time Fortunata was about 
 to open the door of the Colibri' s boudoir when she 
 was startled by a touch on the shoulder, and, turn- 
 ing, met the scrutiny of Cardinal Santinello's full- 
 lidded eyes. On his chest, on his splendid robes, he 
 crossed his white, fleshy fingers. "A word, Con- 
 tessina," he said. 
 
 "My time is yours, Eminenza." 
 
 "Signorina, I have a service to ask of you." 
 
 "Anything that I can do " 
 
 "The Marchesa Dacampagna, your sister, stands 
 in need of your help." 
 
 "Of my help?" 
 
 "Yes, there are certain letters of moment to her; 
 in fact, prejudicial to her reputation, that have fallen 
 into unscrupulous hands to be plain, the Princess 
 Colibri got possession of these er papers. She 
 refuses to give them up, and for no good purpose, 
 I fear. Her Excellency's dislike of my poor fol- 
 lower is but too well known. I am anxious " 
 
 "No doubt. What are these letters?" 
 
 The man of God was somewhat discomfited. 
 "Judge not, lest ye be judged. The Church's duty 
 is to console, to strengthen and forgive. Now for 
 an hour I have tried, by every means in my power, 
 to bring the Princess Colibri to a more Christian 
 
 1x6
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 humor. I have used arguments, persuasions, al- 
 most had I said threats, and am no better off." 
 
 "If you have failed, Eminenza, what impression 
 can I hope to make?" 
 
 "You are too modest; you have influence with 
 your aunt. You are her favorite, the only being 
 she loves. Go to her, entreat her, exert your tact!" 
 
 "I will try." And Fortunata added with sin- 
 cerity, "I am fond of Antonia." 
 
 "The Holy Virgin be with you!" exclaimed his 
 Eminence. One hand he raised in the apostolic 
 blessing; with the other he gathered about him his 
 voluminous robes, and went rustling down the 
 stairs. His coach, swaying like a cradle, rocked 
 him to his sumptuous palace. 
 
 That night Fortunata dined from home. When 
 she came back it was late. She felt her way up- 
 stairs in the dark. 
 
 As she passed her aunt's study 
 
 "Fortunata!" cried her Excellency, in a voice 
 harsh, imperious; and the young girl trailed in, 
 her evening cloak slipping from her shoulders. 
 Crushed were the blush roses on the breast of her 
 dress. 
 
 "Yes, dear aunt?" 
 
 "Look, see here!" whispered the Princess, strok- 
 ing some sheets of paper with an air of bashful joy, 
 quite shocking in so old and hoary a sinner. 
 
 Fortunata glanced at the pages and drew a chair 
 to the table. "I wanted to speak to you about 
 these letters," she said. "They are Antonia's. Will 
 you do me a favor ?" She clasped her hands, plead- 
 ing, with a glance gentle and shy. 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 "The holy man again!" cried her Excellency. 
 "How he fights for his favorite! The schemer! 
 Come, admit it was his Eminence who prompted 
 you ? He knows that I can deny you nothing ; that 
 I rob myself for you like the poor pelican that 
 tears its breast for its young." And the Princess 
 slapped her lean chest, which resounded, even 
 muffled as it was in a dressing-gown and dolman. 
 
 "Oh, aunt!" protested Fortunata. 
 
 "Don't 'oh, aunt' me! You owe me everything, 
 you little cormorant. Who proved to you your 
 talents? Who trained you? Who gave you am- 
 bition and self-assurance? Who taught you to be 
 pretty? to walk? to talk? to charm? Your poor 
 old aunt. I found you the leanest of the lean mean 
 features, more silent than a fish, and took you in 
 hand and formed you." 
 
 "Indeed, I have not forgotten." 
 
 "Ingratitude! At the first chance you turn from 
 me and side with your sister, who cares no more 
 for you than for Guido's old boots." 
 
 "Princess, forgive me; but I think that you are 
 unjust, unkind to Antonia. She does not love you; 
 you will not let her, yet there is no one, in spite of 
 your hardness to her, for you are cruel, who is 
 more proud of you than she. Often and often she 
 says to me, 'How witty '" 
 
 "You have forgotten, Fortunata, that it was I 
 who taught you to flatter," interrupted the grim 
 old woman. 
 
 "Truly, Princess, you have no reason to hate 
 her." 
 
 "Hate has no reason, no more than love. I love 
 118
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 you, selfish, deceitful, thin-cheeked little girl 
 why? You can't tell me, no more can I. I have, 
 way back inside me, such a loathing, such a con- 
 tempt for the getter of these" and she shook the 
 letters "for your long, canting sister, with her 
 sentiments and her hypocrisy and her silly, maudlin 
 tears! Per corpo di Bacco! Antonia comes from 
 the best blood of Italy, yet she must marry the son 
 of a butcher, a man I wouldn't have for my lackey 
 let that pass, he is rich but when, with all Rome 
 before her, she takes for her lover his brother, an- 
 other of that vulgar brood, it is unpardonable; the 
 commonest Lothario that ever drove the Pincio in 
 a hack, a Don Juan only fit to seduce shop-girls, a 
 courier disguised as an officer, the hero of a cheap 
 novel, with his cachous and his breath perfumes and 
 his yellow gloves if only for such execrable taste 
 she needs to be punished." 
 
 "If Luigi is as you paint him," soothed Fortunata, 
 "she is punished enough." 
 
 "But she is happy, carissima, that's what I can't 
 forgive her! You see it in her eyes. You hear it in 
 her voice. Look here he says to her No, see 
 yourself, here, and here again! Read, look!" 
 
 Fortunata drew back, offended. She was far too 
 self-centred to be in the least curious, and she 
 turned proudly away. 
 
 The Princess was nettled. 
 
 "I am unfit to live with such discreet virtue!" 
 
 "Ah, Eccellenza, what can I say to you, how can 
 I reach you? Is it money you hope to get from 
 Antonia? You'll make her buy your silence? No 
 paying speculation, I assure you. Guido is very 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 mean to his wife. Do a better business, and order 
 Dacampagna point-blank to give you whatever sum 
 you please. You are of the fetish who can push him 
 in society. Get him invited to the Monte Chiaro's 
 and you'll have five hundred lire down. Princess, 
 for once, do a big thing, a charitable thing, and give 
 Antonia back her letters. To keep them is unworthy 
 of you, and a revenge any one might take. Surely 
 you have remembrances less hard of Antonia. Think 
 of when she was little; you liked her then. She is 
 your brother's child. Don't cause her unhappiness; 
 no, not as you hope for heaven!" 
 
 "As for heaven," ruminated her Excellency, 
 "from what I have seen of the world, I am inclined 
 to think that the best company goes elsewhere." 
 
 Loyally Fortunata worked for her sister. She 
 asked and entreated; she grew angry; she was for 
 snatching and tearing the letters. The Colibri, with 
 a baleful smile, gathered together the telltale pages, 
 smoothed them fondly, and tied them with a neat 
 bow. 
 
 "Since you won't give them up," said Fortunata, 
 beaten, "what will you do with them?" 
 
 The Princess answered never a word; her eyes 
 told nothing, overshadowed as they were by her 
 brows, those bushy groves of mystery.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "HTRY this fleur-de-lis, Fortunata," said Eugenio, 
 
 1 holding out a perfume-sprayer. "And come 
 see the dainty thing Aunt Colibri is entertaining." 
 
 It was the following morning. The brother and 
 sister were in the upper hall; Eugenio took Fortu- 
 nata by the hand and led her to an arch that gave 
 on the sola. There was to be seen the Princess, 
 dressed prodigiously fine and talking to a very old 
 gentleman in a perky wig and a boutonni&re nearly 
 as large as a cabbage. 
 
 "Why, Eugenio, that's Prince Raoul de la Tour 
 Bichelle, Knight of the Roman Empire, Grandee of 
 Spain, something or other of Austria, and I don't 
 know what else besides!" 
 
 Indeed, it was no other than that same tripping 
 old beau in a buff waistcoat whom the Princess had 
 pointed out to her niece at the Ritz, when Fortunata 
 was just grown a young lady, as long ago as four 
 years. 
 
 The Prince was perched in a chair, listening in- 
 tently, his head cocked on one side, like a fatuous 
 robin. 
 
 "Heavens, isn't he queer!" whispered Fortunata. 
 "Don't laugh, Eugenio. He'll be your brother-in- 
 law yet. He's the best match in Europe, the Colibri 
 says, and I'm ready to wager she'll frighten him 
 into marrying me."
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I give you joy," said the Conte Rivallo, sar- 
 castically. "The venerable gentleman was a fol- 
 lower, or so I have been told, of our aunt's, some- 
 where in the early fifties." 
 
 "Oh, Eugenio," reproved Fortunata, "how can 
 you rake up those horrid old scandals!" 
 
 " Who was that droll old gentleman," asked Miss 
 Billford,at lunch, "with the ahem artificial hair ?" 
 
 "A husband for Fortunata, d. v.," replied the 
 Princess. 
 
 "Amen!" cried the Contessina, devoutly. 
 
 Antonia gave a cry. "If I know Fortunata, 
 never! never!" 
 
 "True," admitted the Princess, "he's a slippery 
 old bird and difficult to snare. When I first knew 
 him I don't want to count the years there was 
 a pale little soubrette who could have charmed the 
 heart out of him these old dotards go back and 
 love what was." 
 
 "For shame, Princess!" cried Antonia. "You 
 have a young girl in your charge, and you give her 
 over to a man whose evil life is the talk of Europe." 
 
 Fortunata had pushed her chair back from the 
 table. She was grown thoughtful. She held one 
 of the spaniels in her lap, and smoothed the dog's 
 head. Her eyes, seeming all pupil, looked into 
 space, with a glance abstracted and wistful. 
 
 "I am twenty- two," she said to her sister, "and 
 when a girl gets that age, her life's a problem. 
 Marry, and what a tying up! Don't, and you're a 
 dreary old maid. What's to be done? I'm poor; 
 I'm in debt. After all, one must live, one must 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 dress." She caressed the dog, smiling sadly. A 
 seraphim, lately come into heaven, never seemed 
 more unsophisticated. 
 
 "A touch of rouge, to-night, Fortunata," the 
 Princess whispered, with an insidious leer. "Just 
 a suspicion. Your hair not too severely dressed. 
 A hint of Bohemianism, of deshabille, of the aban- 
 donment such as you know so well how to affect." 
 
 "Who is coming?" asked Fortunata. 
 
 The Princess lowered her eyes. "A poor old 
 gentleman, very old, very decrepit, a friend of your 
 aunt's, carissima mia." 
 
 At the appointed dinner-hour Fortunata came 
 through the dark halls, her silky dress whispering 
 about her ankles. In the sola the family were 
 assembled. 
 
 "My niece, Fortunata, the Prince de la Tour 
 Bichelle," cried the Colibri, in the strident notes of 
 a showman. The old gentleman tripped up to the 
 Contessina with all the coquetry of a ballet-dancer 
 in disguise. 
 
 "Delighted!" he murmured, inclining a wig so 
 firmly fixed that it seemed it must have been born 
 with him. "This, then, is the illustrious young girl," 
 he began in pedantic French, "one might say the 
 Rose of Rome ?" 
 
 The Princess would not let him continue. "I was 
 telling you, Raoul, how Faustina Monte Chiaro, when 
 she was a young girl, mind you, before she was mar- 
 ried, was Faulcoln de Morne's mistress. You knew 
 him? He was ambassador here. I met Faustina 
 one morning where the Gaffe Aragno is now, in the 
 Corso Umberto Primo. She looked down her nose 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 and breathed hard. 'People have been saying I 
 have had twins,' said she. 'Of course, you don't 
 believe it?' 'Faustina,' I answered, 'the world is 
 proverbially malignant; I make a point to believe 
 only half what I hear.' " 
 
 Dinner was announced, together with a request 
 from Miss Billford to be excused on account of a 
 headache. Whenever guests dined at the Palazzo, 
 the governess, who was the soul of delicacy and 
 feared to intrude, was sure to be indisposed. 
 
 "Come, give me your arm, Raoul," commanded 
 her Excellency, and leaning on the Prince, she 
 dragged herself through the corridors, cursing her 
 rheumatism. The rest of the party followed, their 
 voices reverberating in the dim, draughty halls. In 
 contrast, the dining-room blazed with light and 
 breathed with heat. Along the tapestried walls 
 sprouted gigantic silver candelabra in the form of 
 arms brandishing sconces. In the vast apartment 
 the table gleamed like a strip of snow. Nello and 
 the younger servant, Fidelio, were drawing back 
 the chairs. 
 
 "Take my right, Raoul," commanded her Ex- 
 cellency. "Guido isn't here to-night?" she asked, 
 pointing to the vacant seat on her left. 
 
 Antonia, standing at the farther end of the table, 
 answered, "No, nor yesterday, nor the night before. 
 Ah," she cried, with a sudden bitterness, "God only 
 knows where he is!" 
 
 "No, not God, but the Devil!" snickered the Prin- 
 cess. 
 
 Meanwhile Fortunata, noiseless as a shadow, had 
 taken her seat opposite the Prince. Her hair was 
 
 124
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 caught in a Psyche knot, a cluster of tremulous curls 
 that gave to her head the lightness and irrelevant 
 grace to be seen in Pompeian figures. Luigi and 
 Antonia, seated side by side at the end of the table, 
 were deep in some discussion. The Marchesa ap- 
 peared to be accusing, Don Luigi denying. They 
 spoke in whispers. 
 
 Fortunata's mother sat opposite. She shivered 
 in a shabby cashmere shawl that in itself caused 
 an air of poverty, of sadness. 
 
 The Prince was a painstaking talker; his phrases 
 were pompous; his form of speech complimentary 
 and laborious. He turned toward Annie, chewing 
 over a remark, but the Princess cut him short. 
 
 For the last few minutes her Excellency had been 
 eying Fidelio, the new servant in the Palazzo, with a 
 glance of ferocious interest. All at once she pointed 
 to him. "Madre de Dio!" she yelled, rearing back 
 her brutal head, "is it the son of a woman? His 
 legs, Madonna! His legs! They form an X. One 
 seems to say, ' I will pass this time, if you will pass 
 the next.' Look at him! Madre de Dio! Look!" 
 
 The diners, with one accord, turned and fixed their 
 eyes on the unhappy servant; platter in hand, 
 Fidelio blushed, the figure of discomfiture. Even 
 the Marchesa brought to bear upon him her intense, 
 tragic gaze. 
 
 As the man left the room, " Santa Madonna!" 
 Eugenic cried. "This generation are monsters, de- 
 formities. The ancients, the Greeks, would blush 
 for us." He threw out his arm in appeal, his fine 
 cambric cuff riding out from under his coat-sleeve. 
 
 Meanwhile Francesca made her tumbler squeak 
 
 12$
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 by drawing her finger round and round the edge. 
 With the lack of animation to be seen in children 
 who are never praised or petted, she rolled her 
 vacant blue eyes. 
 
 The eyes of the Prince de la Tour Bichelle were 
 small and sly, like an elephant's. At intervals he 
 cast covert glances across at Fortunata. 
 
 "Does she remind you of no one, Raoul?" ques- 
 tioned the Princess. 
 
 "Why, yes" he hesitated. 
 
 "A little dancer, eh, mon ami, of the Varie'te's, 
 who was so supple you could have pulled her through 
 a ring?" 
 
 The old man did not answer. He continued to 
 watch the young girl with an expression reminiscent 
 and melancholy. Perhaps he was trying to disen- 
 tangle the memories evoked by Fortunata' s face. 
 
 "Ah, don't you catch it now, in the curve of the 
 cheek? I saw that woman only once, yet she is 
 constantly recalled to me. See, as Fortunata looks 
 down." And the harridan pointed to her niece, 
 who went on dining, daintily, and with deliberation. 
 
 A cry burst from Antonia. She had brought Luigi 
 to confess. She clasped her hands, and in the gesture 
 overswept the salt-cellar. As ever, abstracted, she 
 was about to pour the claret over it, there being 
 some connection in her mind between salt and wine- 
 stains. 
 
 "Mama mia! My cloth!" cried the Princess in 
 unfeigned alarm. 
 
 Don Luigi caught the Marchesa's hand in time and 
 set the decanter on the table, with the splendid chal- 
 lenging air that characterized his every action. 
 
 126
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The Princess rose from the table; her little dogs 
 ran in to snuffle up the crumbs. "Raoul, mon ami, 
 Don Luigi, Eugenio, you will all smoke in the sala." 
 
 Luigi drew back the portiere, and the ladies passed 
 out, followed by the men. Contrary to the Italian 
 fashion, a fire roared up the chimney of the sala, the 
 trunk of a chestnut-tree crackling in flames. Near 
 the hearth stood a table charged with cigars and 
 cigarettes, liqueurs and barolo. At a telepathic mes- 
 sage from her aunt, Fortunata took her cigarette as 
 usual. She had hardly spoken during dinner. Now, 
 graceful and abstracted, she swept across the room 
 and seated herself at the piano. She began to play. 
 Her touch was light and indefinite. Her playing 
 suggested a sort of flirting with the piano, the pas- 
 time of a musician. So casual was her manner that 
 in watching her one thought, She must be wonderful 
 when she tries! Another delusion she was doing 
 her best. The tresetti cards were brought out, 
 glorious in red, gold, and black. The Colibri and 
 Eugenio settled down to the game. On either side 
 of the hearth Fortunata's mother and Francesca sat 
 peering in the vacillating light, trying one to knit, 
 the other to read. 
 
 Don Luigi and the Marchesa had passed through 
 the room, looking each into the depth of the other's 
 eyes she gesticulating, accusing; he protesting in 
 his vibrant, Southern voice. They seated themselves 
 at the far end of the hall on a bench before the un- 
 shuttered window. Behind them, the moon glowed 
 iridescent in a sky of purple bloom. The stars 
 seemed to palpitate, beating together as though with 
 a single pulse. 
 
 127
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Beneath Fortunata's pale hands the notes of the 
 piano, languid, drawn out, passed into echoes. The 
 Prince de la Tour Bichelle came across to her, drawn 
 by that something harmonious, seductive, which she 
 possessed. He leaned on the piano, summing her 
 up, holding his monocle in his eye with a grimace. 
 
 "Although you don't know it, I have seen you 
 before." She turned to him with the flushing soft- 
 ness that at times transfigured her expression. "It 
 was in Paris, at the Ritz," she added, in the warm, 
 shy voice she kept for her intimates. 
 
 "You interest me, Mademoiselle," he said, though 
 he was more taken with her proportions than her 
 words, and he sat down beside her. 
 
 The young girl wore a diaphanous scarf, which, 
 falling over her shoulders, served in some degree to 
 disguise their rounded lines. With that virginal 
 coquetry that some women so well understand, the 
 drapery was arranged discreetly, with a false modesty 
 that awaked the imagination and inspired curiosity. 
 
 He began to talk. She listened to him, gravely, 
 but not discouragingly. It is a tipsy old wretch, 
 she thought ; all the women have thrown themselves 
 at his head. I shall show no animation, make no 
 effort. I shall merely be tender and melting and 
 ultra-feminine. 
 
 The Prince's speech was weighted with unwieldy 
 words, classic quotations, compliments, and jokes 
 of a mediaeval obscurity. When he was helplessly 
 entangled, she came to his help with the air of a 
 nurse soothing a refractory lunatic. 
 
 "Testa della Madonna! San Sacramento!" swore 
 the Princess. The game was going against her. The 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 Colibri, red-faced after dinner, congested about the 
 jaw, looked like a hostler in a wig, while Eugenio, 
 with his slanting shoulders and white skin threaded 
 with veins, might have been a girl in disguise. His 
 mother had fallen asleep; her little face, round and 
 wrinkled like an apple, bobbed to a melancholy 
 rhythm; her features showed a network of fine 
 wrinkles, brought on by the anxiety and wear of 
 little nothings. Francesca's visage opposite, as yet 
 round and placid, a mere platter, nevertheless, gave 
 promise of the same maturity. 
 
 In the street a strolling musician burst into song 
 to the whining of his organ. The lovers had left 
 their seat by the window and passed into the garden, 
 allured by the darkness. Although it was February, 
 one of the windows stood open, so temperate was the 
 air. 
 
 "Ah, Signorina," the Prince was saying, "you 
 have every weapon a woman can pray for charm, 
 wit, beauty; above all, youth. What does your 
 poet say? 'Springtime the youth of the year. 
 Youth the springtime of life.'" 
 
 Fortunata agreed, gently bowing her head. 
 
 With a little groan Annie opened her eyes. "I 
 napped a moment," she said, reproachfully, "so I 
 won't close my eyes to-night. Come, Francesca." 
 And they passed out, mother and daughter, after 
 having said good-night. 
 
 The Prince took the hint. "Helas! It is the 
 time of the adieux," he protested. He rose and 
 struck an attitude like an old coryphee. ' ' I came on 
 foot. I walk away on foot. Yes, even at this hour, 
 although I am an old man." He looked toward 
 9 129
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Fortunata as though hoping she might contradict 
 him. "Princess, Mademoiselle, Conte, I have passed 
 an evening, ah!" in default of language, he kissed 
 his finger-tips and vanished. 
 
 Eugenio lighted a candle and, holding it aloft, 
 drew aside the portiere. The Princess passed out, 
 making a funny grimace. 
 
 "Fortunata is clever, but she can't do it, I bet 
 you a hundred lire," wagered Eugenio, lighting her 
 Excellency through the corridors. 
 
 The Princess was pensive. "I had forgotten," 
 she admitted, "how plain my poor old friend is. 
 He wears his moles in such unexpected places." 
 The old clown was delighted with this sally, and 
 shuffled through the halls, chuckling. Her shadow 
 bounded on before her, a long feather standing erect 
 on her brow like the horn of a unicorn. 
 
 The fire was waning, the candles had already 
 burned out. In the glow of the embers the coffee- 
 cups stood two and two leaning toward each other 
 with an air of tipsy intimacy. There was a rush of 
 skirts, a sharp cry. The half -open window giving on 
 the garden flew back. In the embrasure something 
 white appeared stirred by the rising wind a phan- 
 tom, blown out of the night. Fortunata was 
 startled. 
 
 "Antonia!" she exclaimed. 
 
 The Marchesa came across the floor holding her 
 hands to her throat, as though to keep the blood 
 from spurting out. Accustomed as Fortunata was 
 to Antonia's temperament, she was, nevertheless, 
 startled. 
 
 "You are ill?" she asked, her panic gaining. 
 130
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Far worse," cried the Marchesa, and she fell into 
 a chair, her face in her lap. She kept repeating, "It 
 is all over all at an end!" 
 
 Fortunata knelt down beside her. "Carissima! 
 Sister!" she pleaded. She heard the window close, 
 and looking up saw Luigi wandering around the 
 room with rather an abashed air, the air of one who 
 plays a trick that succeeds too well. 
 
 "Luigi," the young girl asked, sternly, "what 
 have you done?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Aye, Madonna, who 
 knows?" He rolled up his handsome eyes, half- 
 anxious, half-proud. 
 
 Antonia, with loosened hair around her shoulders, 
 thrust out at Luigi a long, accusing arm. "He is 
 going to Florence! He says he will never come 
 back!" 
 
 Fortunata was horrified. She had grown to ac- 
 cept this attachment as a family tie. "He could 
 never do that!" she cried, appalled. 
 
 "I am ill, davvero!" pleaded Don Luigi, in a voice 
 of childlike sweetness. ' ' I wish to go to my mamma. 
 I have a fever. Feel, Fortunata feel my pulse!" 
 And he came toward her with an engaging half- 
 smile. 
 
 "Don't touch him!" cried the Marchesa. "God 
 forgive him! I would have torn out my heart for 
 him to eat! Ah, misericordia !" She threw her 
 arms out before her, thrusting out her ten fingers 
 rigid, with that vehemence of the South that is at 
 times grotesque and yet terrible. "Luigi, you are 
 to be married! I know it; I feel it!" 
 
 "It is true," admitted Don Luigi. "When I was 
 131
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 last in Florence my mamma said to me, 'Luigi mio, it 
 is time that you were settled and took a wife, and I 
 have for you a young girl ah, che reva! che sim- 
 patica ragazza.' 'Alas! Madre,' I told her, 'I shall 
 never be able to get another woman out of my 
 thoughts! She is sympathetic, beautiful as the 
 angels, this signorina of yours, but I am thinking of 
 another face. She sings like the siren, Madre mia, 
 but I am dreaming of another voice.' " 
 
 The Marchesa rose; she had abruptly stopped 
 weeping. Her face, quick as a child's to lose the 
 trace of tears, radiated with a melting tenderness. 
 
 "Luigi!" she said, holding out both her hands. 
 
 He was touched felt a sudden attack of humility, 
 of tenderness. 
 
 He took from her the scarf she wore and kissed 
 it with all the grace, the fervor of the South. 
 
 "I hear Guido!" whispered Fortunata. 
 
 A heavy step came stumbling through the hall. 
 
 "It is that dear brother," said Don Luigi, and he 
 shrugged, with the nape of his neck, as it were, and, 
 thrusting out his under lip, made his jaunty mus- 
 tache ride up to his nose. 
 
 Screeching on its rings, the portiere was pulled 
 aside, and in the dim entrance Dacampagna ap- 
 peared, holding on to the curtain and swaying to 
 and fro, like a sailor clinging to the sail. He stared 
 into the room, glassy-eyed, then advanced with 
 exaggerated dignity.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 FORTUNATA had persuaded the Princess, al- 
 though her Excellency declared that she was 
 bankrupt, to give a dinner and afterward have in, 
 to recite, La Valliere, whom they had seen in Paris 
 on the occasion of their visit several years ago. At- 
 tenuated, tall, and over- thin, the French actress 
 stood in the middle of the room apparently uncon- 
 scious and indifferent. Her narrow dress wound 
 around her and circled about her feet in curves sug- 
 gestive of a Pompeian vase. Her face was long and 
 pale, with prominent cheek-bones; her eyes, set 
 high in her forehead, deeply sunken, and circled 
 about her battered and somewhat vicious face, were 
 transfigured at moments by flashes of a strange, 
 exotic loveliness. She lowered her lids and hid her 
 anxious eyes, wherein was read the fear of losing 
 beauty and the fleeting years of youth. Fortunata, 
 listening to her recite in a vibrant voice full of sex, 
 thought, I am not afraid of the future! A sense of 
 power ran through her veins like fire. By her side 
 the Prince de la Tour Bichelle dozed; on his waist- 
 coat rode four pearls, iridescent. What pretty 
 double earrings they would make, thought Fortu- 
 nata. She cast him a look as masterful as that of 
 Judith before she struck Holofernes. To herself she 
 promised, he shall help me up where I must be!
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 After the guests had departed and the lights were 
 out, Eugenio sought his sister in her room. 
 
 "Will you talk with me a little?" he asked. 
 
 "Surely, brother dear." 
 
 He vaulted onto the table, and, crossing his feet, 
 showed his elaborately worked socks and slender 
 ankles. He lit a cigarette and winced at the smoke, 
 like a soubrette in disguise. Had the splendid Ugo 
 Rivallo lived to see his son mature, he might have 
 regretted the physical degeneracy of his race. Eu- 
 genio was a head shorter than his father; narrower 
 by the breadth of two hands; no thicker through 
 than a shadow; already he had some obscure lung 
 trouble; at times his cheeks were flushed as though 
 rouged, and his eyes held an unnatural brilliancy. 
 His potations were responsible for much of his color, 
 though not for a certain dreary little cough. Never- 
 theless, the young Conte had about him a fragile 
 elegance. He was an aesthetic fop. He decked his 
 poor little person in fine clothes and brave colors, 
 scented his lawn shirts, and went about smelling 
 like Araby the Blest. 
 
 "Fortunata," he said, looking at his sister, "to- 
 night I saw the woman who could interest me. That 
 woman made me think." 
 
 "LaValliere?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I don't like her face at all," Fortunata declared. 
 "She's so battered, so tawdry, so bruised under the 
 eyes. She might be dead and dug up again." 
 
 "Possibly," admitted Eugenio. "I hardly know 
 how her face looks. I felt her presence rather than 
 saw her. She reminds me of some one, of something.
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 She is hauntingly familiar. Before she spoke, I 
 knew her voice. In an earlier life I must have loved 
 her." 
 
 "But, Eugenio, she is so old. Why, that woman is 
 thirty-five if she's a day." 
 
 "No, not old, Fortunata, only she has been young 
 a long time. She has outgrown the bouncing crudity 
 of youth its ignorance, its lack of mystery. I like 
 her eyes. They think of all they have seen, of all 
 they have learned. They compare, they remem- 
 ber!" 
 
 "She is so rotten, so utterly bad." 
 
 "That to me is her greatest power. The aplomb, 
 the splendid assurance of sin. A good conscience 
 doesn't give half the dignity." 
 
 "But, my poor brother," said Fortunata, "La Val- 
 liere is a great courtesan, rich, fashionable, famous. 
 She would never give a boy such as you a thought." 
 
 "Genius has no age," Eugenio declared, "and I 
 have genius I know it, I feel it." Rising, he took 
 his sister's hand and kissed it. "Happy dreams, 
 Fortunata mia, and good-night." 
 
 It was the climax of the season. Society had 
 worked itself into a frenzy. The vanity of the 
 women flared up in a supreme flame. Each outdid 
 the other, and over their fine clothes their faces 
 looked out, pinched, worn, fagged. The Duchessa 
 da Monte Chiaro organized a ballet. The aristocrats 
 were to dance for the poor. The Constanzi Theatre 
 saw the nobility rehearsing every day the young 
 and the old yes, and the fat, too; debutantes and 
 mothers crossing in the dance, for youth is never 
 outlived in Italy, nor the love of laughter. The Coli-
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 bri, watching, nudged Mr. Hackburth. "Charity!" 
 cried her Excellency, "how many shins are uncov- 
 ered in thy name!" 
 
 At luncheon that day, "Fortunata," the Princess 
 said, "the Monte Chiaro told me that you are to 
 have the pas seul. I answered her, you deserved it. 
 Indeed, the ladies of the ballet, apart from lack of 
 practice, advancing years, and avoirdupois, have no 
 desire to appear as able coryphe'es; on the con- 
 trary, they strive to prove themselves aristocrats, 
 in spite of the footlights, and perfect gentlewomen, 
 even while pirouetting. Now, Fortunata is will- 
 ing to show that she is agile and well made enough 
 not to rank as a lady." 
 
 "She could take no higher rank," says Miss Bill- 
 ford. 
 
 ' ' Delusion !" cried the Princess. ' ' The sooner you 
 get that idea out of your head, Billford, the better; 
 for sixty years pardon me, fifty-eight years you 
 have passed as a lady have you ever found it 
 amusing or profitable?" 
 
 The governess crossed her hands on her black 
 bombazine skirt. "I have tried to do what I be- 
 lieved to be my duty, Excellency," she said. 
 
 "Duty! Pshaw! Mere hypocritical cringing to 
 public opinion. Do I sleep any the worse, do I eat 
 any the less because the Monte Chiaro tells old 
 Quimpere I'm a liar?" 
 
 The afternoon of the dress rehearsal arrived. The 
 troup of Bacchus Bassarid and Bacchante whirled 
 across the stage, and with a scream of music the 
 dance was ended. The fauns threw themselves down 
 and blew their pipes, the satyrs crouched, leering, 
 
 136
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 hugging their hairy knees. The women showed less 
 dramatic talent. The nymphs struck attitudes with- 
 out conviction, rocking uncertainly in uncomfort- 
 able abandonment; the riotous music ceased, the 
 clashing of cymbals, the hooting of horns, and the 
 flute took up a note, repeating it over and over, 
 melancholy, queer, thrilling. The theatre, in semi- 
 darkness, gave out a damp and pungent odor; a 
 few dim figures spotted the monotony of seats 
 Mrs. Hazard and Mr. Hackburth; Mrs. Hackburth 
 and Gismondo; the Papal Guard; Antonia and 
 Luigi ; while the Monte Chiaro scowled over the back 
 of the seat before her, a cigar-holder in her hand, for 
 the old lady was an inveterate smoker of cigars as 
 well as cigarettes. In the front loggia, behind the 
 curtains, the Colibri looked on, the Prince de la Tour 
 Bichelle at her side. His pulses went dot-and-carry- 
 one when, at a prolonged cry of the flute, Fortunata, 
 in a tunic of dubious modesty, a leopard skin over 
 her shoulder, a cymbal in each hand, rushed into 
 view as a bacchante. She stood for a moment in the 
 centre of the stage, holding aloft the brass discs, 
 her body rigid, her head thrown back, very pale in 
 her tawny cloak. Half closing her eyes in a sudden 
 abandonment, she began swaying, gliding, swinging 
 one moment agile as a cat, the other languorous 
 as though about to faint. The onlookers forgot the 
 other women, many of them more beautiful; forgot 
 that they had ever seen her before; she was an 
 Archaic creature, soulless, perverse, dancing her 
 sylvan dance to a pastoral piping. 
 
 "Fortunata is a good girl," the Princess had the 
 hardihood to say. The Prince de la Tour Bichelle
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 continued to watch the dancer, with an expression 
 at once fatuous and sad. "And Raoul," added her 
 Excellency, lowering her voice, "elle est bien faite, 
 la petite. Un corps admirable." The Colibri drew 
 arabesques in the air. 
 
 "I have never seen such another woman. Yet 
 you know I make no pretence of being young." 
 
 And Fortunata, as she clashed her cymbals, hap- 
 pening to look right at him, he lost his breath, grow- 
 ing white as a corpse. 
 
 "To be in love at my age is to be in love to the 
 end. Ah!" cried the Prince, like one giving over all 
 pretence, "a man of my years cannot hope to keep 
 so beautiful a creature!" 
 
 "The figure of a siren," whispered the Princess. 
 
 "Les yeux d'une amoureuse!" 
 
 "Yes, but not the soul. She's as hard and cold 
 as this" her Excellency rapped her diamond pend- 
 ant "and as pure when nothing is to be gained. 
 You can hope to keep her for yourself always, be- 
 cause, Raoul, you can give her as much of these" 
 the Colibri lifted up her jewelled arm "and these" 
 clashing the gewgaws together "as any man." 
 
 Back in the shadow of the box, the two old friends 
 interchanged a leer of incredible malice and meaning. 
 
 "Brava! Brava! La Rivallo!" The audience 
 clapped, stamped, yelled, and the bacchante, look- 
 ing like Fortunata for the first time, laughed back 
 in gratitude. 
 
 She felt victorious, immortal. Her eyes showed 
 her courage. She drew all the men after her. They 
 were eager to carry her cymbals, her leopard skin, 
 to touch the white arms that had coiled about in the 
 
 138
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 dance. In the stuffy dressing-room, under the 
 flaming gas-jet, Hortense unclasped her mistress's 
 sandals. 
 
 "Ah," cried the maid, "it makes to pity, the state 
 of Monsieur le Prince, so enamoured of Mademoiselle ! 
 When Mademoiselle was dancing " 
 
 "You are too conscientious, Hortense." 
 
 "I do not comprehend, Mademoiselle " 
 
 "My little Hortense, you earn your money well." 
 And Fortunata gave the servant a quick, meaning 
 look. 
 
 Skirt, coat, and hat on, and dapper as could be, 
 Fortunata tripped into the hall, when a claw-like 
 hand caught her arm, and a little black head rose 
 up on the level with hers. 
 
 "A word, Mademoiselle; a moment, an instant!" 
 
 In the semi-darkness the Prince looked so small 
 and scared that Fortunata was tempted to put her 
 hand on his throat and say, "Marry me!" 
 
 "My time is yours, Monsieur," she murmured. 
 
 He pushed back the door of one of the loggias, held 
 it open for her, then followed her in. 
 
 "You are an artiste!" he groaned, in a distracted 
 way. 
 
 She protested. 
 
 "The others are artisans beside you, clumsy 
 artisans! Who is like you ? Not one. Mademoiselle, 
 forgive me, if I dare you are beautiful, you are 
 young, I am nothing beside you I am fifty-nine," 
 said the poor old gentleman, who was much nearer 
 seventy. "One sees greater differences of age every 
 day. Everything a woman can want you shall have 
 bracelets for these lovely arms, a necklace for
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 your throat trust me, I can make you happy." 
 And he seized her hands, covering them with kisses 
 and senile tears. 
 
 A sudden sense of sickness came over her, her 
 fingers turned to ice. 
 
 "Marry me! Be my wife!" 
 
 She looked away from him and braced herself. 
 
 "I will marry you." She had hardly voice 
 enough to say the words. 
 
 He went down on his knees, in spite of dust and 
 rheumatism. 
 
 "My adored one! My Fortunata!" 
 
 He is very unattractive, thought Fortunata, feel- 
 ing faint. One of the pearls burst from his shirt. 
 
 "Ah, let it go!" cried her ecstatic lover. But 
 Fortunata, at the vision of incomplete earrings, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Never, dearest!" 
 
 Hand in hand, they knelt down, sought beneath 
 the sofa and found the jewel. 
 
 He led her to the carriage, guided her steps, and 
 upheld her as though she were a prey to paralysis. 
 Outside, the air was warm and bright compared to 
 the dark corridors of the theatre. The people, re- 
 joicing in the pleasant hour, were flitting through 
 the street, and the sun was sinking in a glory of 
 red and gold. Fortunata turned to give a supreme 
 good-bye. 
 
 The Prince exclaimed, "God bless you, my be- 
 loved!" Still he could not bring himself to let go 
 her hand. In the clear light of the spring evening 
 Fortunata saw but too plainly her future husband. 
 He stood with one bespatted foot on the carriage 
 
 140
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 step. His face wore an expression at once droll 
 and pathetic. She was conscious of his waxen com- 
 plexion and the crows' feet about his eyes. In her 
 dreams of wealth and power, the reigning monarch 
 had never figured. Her heart sank. She felt as 
 though a sudden misfortune had overwhelmed her.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FRIDAY, the holiest of days, had come. 
 Processions of priests filed through the streets, 
 the seminaries of France with their blue cords, those 
 of Germany with their red, those of Spain with their 
 yellow, those of Bulgaria with their green, those of 
 Austria with their orange. The monks, Capuchins, 
 Carmelites, Franciscans, the Brothers of the Poor, 
 went slowly through the sunlight droning their 
 masses. Holy relics were borne through the city 
 bones of saints, blood of martyrs, the veil of the 
 Virgin, the staff of the best-beloved apostle. There 
 were crowds to the left, to the right, a sea of shifting 
 faces, of outstretched arms. 
 
 "Maria Santa, San Giovanni, Maria Dolorosa, 
 Santo Spirito!" The bells rang, the sun shone, the 
 choristers sang. The boys with voices like flutes, 
 the baritones, the bassos thundering in praise. 
 
 "Ecco, the Host!" 
 
 And the people went down with bowed heads, as 
 at the coming of the last day. Behold, at the open- 
 ing of the street, a sun upon earth, more burnished 
 than the shield of Achilles, the Host borne in triumph 
 by the Princes of the Church! Their stoles were of 
 purple and orange, scarlet and shimmering green, 
 like the scales of a sea-monster, worked in opalescent 
 devices, many-rayed suns. On they came, walking 
 
 142
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 in a cloud of incense, like an army blazing in the 
 sun. 
 
 In and out of St. Peter's the crowd surged, con- 
 flicting, turning back, sweeping on, an unquiet shift- 
 ing mass. At five, before the vespers, a priest ap- 
 peared on the balcony up among the rafters. He 
 shook out and held aloft a cloth stained with sweat 
 and blood said to be the cloth wherein St. Veronica 
 wiped the face of Christ. Next, behold the spear 
 that pierced His side, and a piece of the cross on 
 which He suffered. Amid the vast aisles silence 
 brooded, then all at once a sigh went up from the 
 adoring multitude. 
 
 St. John Lateran is the modish church of Rome. 
 On Good Friday it is more crowded than the Grand 
 Hotel. Society flocks thither to parade the Easter 
 fashions, to spy every one upon his neighbor, to 
 make love. It serves as a Roman Longchamps an 
 occasion to frivol, to wear fine clothes, to choose a 
 new lover, or a new mistress. 
 
 Fortunata was there in a dress fitting like a glove, 
 and on her ringer a monster ruby, de la Tour Bi- 
 chelle's engagement ring. Proud of her figure, she 
 passed amid the pillars of porphyry and alabaster; 
 she moved among the forests of lapis-lazuli, undulat- 
 ing like a self-conscious snake. She had her usual 
 following de Brillac, Quesconti, Monte Varchi 
 Gismonde, and two or three officers who always 
 walked in her steps. As for her tiresome old fiance, 
 he never left her side. She made her way to the 
 high altar, and stood watching the celebration of 
 the mass. The young men gathered around her, 
 cutting out the poor Prince, whispering, cajoling,
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 each apparently unconscious of the others, like a 
 swarm of bees around the same flower. The chaliced 
 lilies gave out a heavy fragrance. The incense was 
 oppressively sweet. Two lovers passed. In Italy 
 the love of man for woman predominates over every 
 occasion, over every situation. Don Luigi sauntered 
 up, a voluptuous orchid drooping in his button-hole. 
 
 "Ah, Contessina, comm' e bella!" And he joined 
 her group with a swagger semi-blusterous, semi- 
 sentimental. "Ah, Prince," he cried, "che bella 
 festa, che belle donne ! La Valliere is here, ' ' he added 
 to de Brillac. "A dream!" He kissed his fingers, 
 murmuring, "Ah, what a figure!" and he waved 
 his hat, indicating curves and s's "the loveliest 
 woman here after the Contessina." 
 
 The organ growled, it roared, it let out its big 
 voice. The aisles echoed, the beams reverberated; 
 and thundering, the music ceased, leaving the church 
 vibrating. A priest took up the Jeremiads, the 
 plaintive trills, the nasal melancholy chords on 
 and on went the chant eerie as a song of the dead, 
 unthrilling, deprived of all the warmth of sex. 
 
 In the shady aisles boys of fifteen and sixteen 
 swaggered, aping the ways of men. Strange little 
 dandies with canes and monocles ogling the women. 
 At a sudden wail of the Jeremiads, La Valliere passed, 
 all in red like the woman of the Apocalypse, her 
 skirts brushing the tiles of the church like a scarlet 
 meteor; and after her, her shadow, came Eugenio 
 in black, like Hamlet, with pale face. To hear 
 Eugenio talk, he was near to death. He ranted and 
 spouted about the Frenchwoman in his finest style. 
 He sickened from his sentimental malady. He had 
 
 144
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 made Fortunata the confidante of his hope and re- 
 buffs and despair. For, unlike the Anglo-Saxon, 
 the Continental takes a pride in analyzing and dis- 
 secting his passion. 
 
 The men about Fortunata turned for an instant 
 to watch the famous cantatori pass by. 
 
 "Contessina," Don Luigi whispered, "let us go to 
 the Christo Salvatore." 
 
 And she answered, "Va bene," and gave her tire- 
 some old fiance the slip. 
 
 The Christo Salvatore, according to the legend, 
 is the image found by Saint Mark in the caves of the 
 fishermen working wonders by the sea. It is en- 
 dowed, says the fable, with miraculous powers; it 
 can cure and console. On Good Friday the effigy 
 of the Christ lies in state at the head of a steep 
 flight of steps leading to a court back of San Gio- 
 vanni's. Six tapers, thick as a man's forearm, flame 
 around the pallid head. The figure is chiselled in 
 wood, the face pock-marked with dents of blood and 
 sweat. It is the work probably of one of the earliest 
 believers. He was a poor workman, no doubt, and 
 yet, like all incomplete efforts, this piece of wood 
 stirs the heart gazing at it; one feels the horror of 
 pain, the loneliness of death. It lies there, touching 
 and awful, crowned with thorns an effigy of the 
 crime of the world. The poor, the destitute, the 
 hopeless come to it up the steep stairs, step by step, 
 walking on their knees. Fortunata stood at the 
 head of the flight, Luigi at her side. She looked 
 down. With bent back, groping hands, tired, ach- 
 ing, the worshippers climbed on. They were mostly 
 old, and mostly women. In honor of thefesta some 
 10 145
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 wore their finery, others were in black, dreary livery 
 of the poor. Here and there was seen a bright young 
 head, brown or golden, a mother dragging up a 
 rebellious child. Here and there a scarf, orange or 
 scarlet, of the contadini, shading the eyes, or the hats 
 of the poor dismal little bonnets that draw tears to 
 the eyes. 
 
 Suddenly Fortunata caught sight of Antonia's 
 face. The Marchesa was working her way up the 
 stairs, among the rest, on her knees. Her head was 
 thrown back. She was pale. Her eyes were closed. 
 Underneath her dark lashes slipped tear after tear 
 as she struggled on among her humble sisters. On 
 they came, these sisters of sorrow; they kissed the 
 feet of the Saviour, His hands, and the wound in His 
 side opened by the ungrateful spear. Devoutly they 
 made the sign of the cross ; they crossed their hands 
 grown rough in hardship; they prayed; many of 
 them wept, and it was evident that they believed. 
 It is no wonder that Christ chose for His companions 
 the humble, the destitute, that He so loved the out- 
 cast, the lepers, the scum of this poor earth.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 'T'HE spring was come. The assiduous attentions 
 1 of Fortunata's elderly fiance shortly became 
 boring in the extreme, and her aim was to escape 
 as much as possible from her tiresome companion. 
 Indeed, the poor child had grown to dread certain 
 ancient anecdotes and complicated histories, re- 
 ferring to once resplendent beauties, now no more 
 than a handful of mouldering earth. As to the 
 Prince's bon mots those hideous bon mots, the treas- 
 ured words of half a century they plunged her 
 into measureless despair. When her lover com- 
 pared her to Venus, or floundered in some reference 
 to herself and the nine muses, she helped him 
 through his compliment with the air of a trained 
 nurse upholding a swooning patient. Interminable 
 were the luncheons at which the Prince was regular- 
 ly present. Having presented his fiancee with roses 
 red roses for love he would kiss her hand and 
 lead her to the table with as much care as though 
 she were made of the finest cracked porcelain. The 
 Princess was silent, with a roving eye toward a pos- 
 sible quarrel. The Prince was garrulous, ate much, 
 chewed long, made himself wearisome generally, 
 save to Miss Billford, who was led to talk of the 
 British beauties. Eugenio brooded, while Antonia, 
 deep in her love-affair, gazed across the cold meat 
 
 147
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 out of the window. Fortunate removed her astral 
 body, but was brought back to earth by the Prince, 
 who leered at her through his wine-glass. What an 
 old satyr! she thought, as she inclined her head in 
 graceful recognition, while her eyes took on a dreamy 
 and tender expression. 
 
 From a sense of self-preservation, the Contessina, 
 on principle, rarely looked at her future husband. 
 However, as they turned home after interminable 
 hours together in the garden, she would cast him a 
 glance through her eyelashes. At the glimpse of his 
 quizzical face, shrivelled and parchment-like, the 
 impossibility of this marriage swept over her. She 
 entered the house brooding on the means of breaking 
 her odious engagement. 
 
 Fortunate was fighting through one of those 
 phases, known to all, of a measureless fatigue, when 
 everything gives way beneath one, when the world 
 holds nothing that can beckon or allure. What 
 inveterate perseverance merely to wash, dress, feed 
 this carcass! What energy and pluck to battle 
 through these wasting trivialities! Often did she 
 laugh to keep from crying. 
 
 Antonia, in the r61e of elder sister, was striving 
 to save Fortunate from "this miserable sale," as 
 she termed the marriage. "A life without love is 
 like a lyre without strings," she declared, tragically, 
 rising from dinner with a banana-skin hanging to 
 her fan-chain, at the close of a discussion with the 
 Princess in which her Excellency had maintained 
 that age in an unloved husband should be reck- 
 oned as a distinct quality, since the older he is 
 the sooner will he be well under ground. 
 
 148
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "A life without love?" retorted the Princess. "I 
 do not follow you. Why should the existence of an 
 old and homely husband, an undying Methuselah, if 
 you will, restrict our poor Fortunata to the part of 
 a Griselda? Even a woman after your own heart, 
 Antonia, might " 
 
 "Princess, when the Just Judge shall ask you 
 what you have done with the young life entrusted 
 to your care, I tremble for your answer. It can be 
 but a guilty blush." 
 
 "Look to yourself, chaste Susanna is yours so 
 immaculate a record, are there no questions you 
 fear?" 
 
 "Whatever my shortcomings may be, I thank 
 God" 
 
 "Hallelujah; but don't bring sacred things into 
 the discussion." 
 
 "No, for they mean nothing to you. Addio!" 
 
 It was a Thursday, the night of Lord Bolton's 
 weekly dinner-dance. Fortunata, shaking hands 
 with her hostess, felt a stranger's eyes upon her, 
 and turning met the look of a tall young man 
 prodigiously tall he was and big and blond. 
 
 "Lord Trevers, the Signorina Rivallo," said Lady 
 Bolton. "Our cousin, Fortunata, and the new 
 military attache"." 
 
 The man bowed to Fortunata, looking at her gravely. 
 
 She smiled at him and, having spoken to her 
 hostess, turned away, giving him not a thought. 
 Later, she remembered that she had known no 
 presentiment on seeing him, had felt no presage of 
 what he afterward must mean to her. 
 
 149
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 At dinner Fortunata found herself between two 
 bores one of them her fianc', opposite sat Lord 
 Trevers, straighter than a soldier on parade. He 
 was telling the lady next to him how his terrier 
 killed rats. He spoke without gestures, though with 
 a certain ponderous animation. It was to an old 
 Jezebel he was talking, the wife of the French 
 Minister, rouged to a hectic flush and barer over the 
 chest than a plucked chicken. She did not want 
 to speak of rats, and seemed highly discomfited. 
 
 He is not very intelligent, thought Fortunata, 
 gazing into her soup; nevertheless, momentarily, out 
 of the corner of her eye, she watched the clean, 
 arrogant, well-fed Englishman. 
 
 "He is rather good-looking," she said to Pearl, as 
 the two girls after dinner were prinking in the 
 dressing-room. 
 
 Miss Case had taken off her curls and was comb- 
 ing them vigorously. "He has the goods, too," she 
 answered, pinning on her coiffure. "He is the best 
 match in Rome now. Ah, my dear, you spoiled 
 your game when you got tied up with grandpa." 
 
 And now from every source Fortunata learned that 
 Lord Trevers was wealthy and of the best blood in 
 England. Gossip said that he wanted an English 
 wife. Lady Bolton offered both her daughters. Miss 
 Case, rumor said, was attentive to him. He him- 
 self had not yet seen the girl or woman he could 
 love. 
 
 Fortunata found him attractive, drawn to him 
 as her type is by the primitive, simple, stupid man. 
 As for Lord Trevers, he never looked her way, and 
 his unconcern gave him value. In Lady Bolton 
 
 150
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 was no guile. Her efforts to marry off her daughters 
 were as shameless as her false front a thing so 
 palpable that you blushed to look at it. She hand- 
 ed Lord Trevers her children alternately. It was 
 "Richard, won't you and Millicent try this ma- 
 zourka?" "Dick, I should like to see Violet and 
 you waltz together." He seemed a tractable giant, 
 and led his cousins out to dance, stepping on their 
 feet and looking very solemn. He is an ass ! thought 
 Fortunata, and yet, somehow, she liked him. 
 
 The carriages were called. Fortunata said good- 
 night to Lord and Lady Bolton, to their daughters, 
 and to Lord Trevers. He looked at her coldly, or, 
 rather, passed her as though she were not. She 
 was chilled, accustomed to the Italian glance, that 
 lights up before any woman, however plain or old. 
 
 I will make him love me, thought Fortunata. 
 
 She had flung her cloak over her shoulders, and, 
 stepping from the dressing-room as he passed through 
 the hall, she came his way. He bowed and turned 
 aside. She bowed and stopped. They stood look- 
 ing at each other the tall young man, his eye-glass 
 in his eye; the girl in her long cloak. 
 
 "Lord Trevers," said Fortunata, "you were speak- 
 ing to-night of wanting to make up a club for boat- 
 ing on the Tiber ? I know the people you would 
 like, the most congenial. I should like to help you ; 
 may I do so?" 
 
 Surprised by something in her voice, he looked 
 at her and concluded that really he could not have 
 seen her before. He was startled by her face. Per- 
 haps she wasn't pretty, exactly, but, poor girl, she 
 was an Italian. He remembered to have heard of
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 her neglected childhood, of her drunken father, of 
 a mother that no one ever saw. Poor child! If she 
 had any sensibility she must have suffered. 
 
 All the time Fortunata was looking at him, pale 
 and grave. No, there was no getting away from 
 it, she had very taking eyes. 
 
 "You are most kind, Signorina," he answered, 
 and he added, with a slight stammer, "it would 
 t-t-take time." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, seriously; "if you have a 
 moment, Lord Trevers, to-morrow, come to the 
 Palazzo Colibri to tea. We can talk it over." 
 
 He bowed and saw her to the carriage. She 
 thanked him and shook hands. She was utterly 
 changed. Her intimates would not have known 
 her. The something teasing and inviting that char- 
 acterized her manner with men was gone. Lord 
 Trevers did not approve of the tone she took with 
 her admirers. He saw no reason why a young girl 
 born to Fortunata's position should descend to the 
 allurements of a courtesan. 
 
 Next day the garden of the Palazzo Colibri was as 
 fragrant as Eden with the box and cypress and per- 
 sistence of the sun. The Princess Colibri was in her 
 arbor that overlooked the city. She was in scarlet 
 and yellow, like a great ugly tulip. Miss Billford sat 
 on the steps of the summer-house embroidering a 
 crest on one of the dogs' blankets, while Fortunata 
 lay on the grass holding a leaf between her lips like 
 a faun, her well-brushed hair glowing in the sun. 
 
 "Is Raoul coming?" asked her Excellency. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," answered the young girl, 
 yawning.
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "He's a frail old thing," observed the Princess. 
 "Now, I'm a heavy woman, and when he offers me 
 his arm to help me down the stairs, his hand is like 
 a little dead bird's claw. I fear he'll come to pieces, 
 I do assure you, I'm so nervous." 
 
 "It seems to me, Excellency," murmured Miss 
 Billford, "if I may say so, that for a gentleman of 
 more than mature age the Prince is well preserved 
 and has very fine teeth, and a sweet smile, I am 
 sure." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw!" cried the Princess; "they're all 
 false except one in the front, and that's gold." 
 
 "Oh, aunt, really!" protested Fortunata, yawn- 
 ing, stretching like a cat. 
 
 "Fortunata is after other pearls the one he wears 
 in his waistcoat hee! hee!" And in a paroxysm 
 of joy the Princess nudged Billford, who dropped her 
 embroidery, confounded by embarrassment and be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 It was still warm, the air resonant. The sound 
 of feet approached, crushing the gravel, and, ushered 
 in by Nello, the Prince Raoul's page appeared. He 
 was a dapper little boy covered with braids, with 
 buttons and gilt. He stood in the sunlight gleaming 
 and bowing. 
 
 "Monsieur de la Tour Bichelle presents his com- 
 pliments to her Excellency, the Princess Colibri, and 
 to the Contessina Rivallo. He begs the Contessina 
 to accept these flowers and his regrets that the Con- 
 tessina has left Rome for the day." The boy laid a 
 floral pyramid at Fortunata' s feet, and backed with 
 Nello behind the thick hedge of intergrowing box. 
 
 "You are leaving Rome for the day, Fortunata?"
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I have left already, Zia," the young girl said, 
 lifting up her flowers. 
 
 "Whom are you expecting?" asked her Ex- 
 cellency. "Is it wise to tell, above all to write, 
 such an unnecessary lie?" 
 
 "Some things are easier to do than to explain," 
 Fortunata observed, choosing some blush roses to 
 wear at her girdle. 
 
 "Well, of course," the Princess whispered, with 
 meaning, "if this one is worth more than the old 
 one besides, I think you've earned a holiday." 
 And she worked her eyebrows up and down, looking 
 under her scarlet hood like Mephistopheles. 
 
 Meanwhile Billford, a prey to mystification, was 
 searching in the gravel for her needle.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ON the twenty-ninth of May, the anniversary 
 of Ugo Rivallo's death, his widow was wont to 
 go on a pilgrimage to his grave. 
 
 It would appear that a fatality hung over Fortu- 
 nata's mother, preventing her ever going on any 
 expedition, hampering her whenever she strove to 
 leave the Palazzo even for the shortest drive. Long 
 before the given time for the departure, she would 
 begin to dress and go through her toilette with the 
 melancholy of self-dedicated sacrifice. At the last 
 moment always she was seized with a presentiment : 
 
 "Something tells me" either she was about to 
 trip on her corset-lace or a hook was in imminent 
 danger of coming off. To-day the curse was not 
 lifted. Helping herself to the salad-dressing, she 
 let fall on her lap a drop of oil. The Contessa pict- 
 ured herself spotted like the leopard. Disconsolate, 
 she fled to her room to uncork the benzine. 
 
 "Since mother doesn't want the carriage, I should 
 like to drive, Zia," said Fortunata. 
 
 The Princess gave one of the smiles she kept re- 
 served for Fortunata alone. "The victoria is yours, 
 my little one." 
 
 It was the loveliest of afternoons. "Fragoli!" 
 cried the strawberry - venders. The Piazza, di 
 Spagna was banked with flowers. Suddenly on the
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 steps across the square Fortunata saw a tall figure, 
 and something took her at the throat. 
 
 "Stop, Gaspare!" she cried to the coachman. 
 
 "Lord Trevers!" She bent out of the carriage. 
 The young man turned and came to her. 
 
 He took off his hat and stood beside the carriage, 
 bareheaded in the sunshine, thinking of something 
 to say. 
 
 Big, handsome brute, she thought, and her heart 
 warmed to him. "I have a suggestion for the boat 
 club." 
 
 "Yes?" Never once did he assume the con- 
 ventional smile of delighted surprise. 
 
 "Will you take a drive with me?" 
 
 "If you like," he answered, in the voice that 
 made her feel sadly unattractive. 
 
 He stepped into the carriage and sat down by 
 her side. He had come to tea the day before she 
 had asked him. She was conscious of somehow 
 having failed to draw him to her. Other men had 
 dropped in, suitors and ex-suitors. She had been 
 led away to talk, to be amusing. She had been dis- 
 tracted from the role of the gentle, sweet girl which 
 she had assumed for Lord Trevers. He distrusted 
 her, and she knew it. He had been brought up 
 to believe that every woman was determined to 
 marry him. His taste was simple; he liked big, 
 buxom women whose stride could keep time with a 
 man's, who were built to weather all inclemencies. 
 Fortunata was subtle, too fine, too mysterious; he 
 could not appreciate her. Besides, he admired in 
 a woman those sterling, old-fashioned virtues 
 modesty, honor, and truth. He had heard Fortu- 
 
 156
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 nata lightly named, with a shrug, with a half-smile. 
 He told himself she could not be a very nice girl 
 that was the phrase he used to contemplate even 
 for a moment marrying a wretched roue sunk in age 
 and dissipation. His heart told him, although his 
 vocabulary could never have furnished the words, 
 that the Signorina Rivallo was ambitious hollow, 
 crafty, false. 
 
 Fortunata had read this from the first look in his 
 eyes. She worked to counteract this preconceived 
 impression. She was simple, sisterly, a genial friend. 
 Flirtatious never, God forbid! somewhat grave, 
 at moments preoccupied. 
 
 "To the Pincio, Gaspare!" 
 
 Did Lord Trevers think it strange that they should 
 drive side by side in the face of the world? She 
 glanced at him, but could tell nothing from his pro- 
 file, somewhat stern and yet material. The move 
 was intentional. All the Pincio would see them. 
 His name would be linked with hers. Gossip some- 
 times engenders the very event it rumors. She 
 spoke of the boat club, suggesting, listening, all at- 
 tention and intelligence. He was led away to talk, 
 reassured by her quiet manner, her sincere eyes that 
 met his without a spark of flirtatious fire. 
 
 Up and down the Pincio they drove, among the 
 prancing cavaliers who, proud of their buckskin 
 breeches and patent-leather boots, exhilarated by 
 the sense of costume, the semblance of disguise, 
 made their horses cavort, and ogled the women. 
 The signore lay back in their carriages, looking in 
 the eyes of the men with a cool steadiness that was 
 almost oriental.
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I should like to buy a hat," said Fortunata. 
 Their carriage was skirting the hill. Below them 
 swayed the dense foliage of the Borghese Gardens. 
 "Come with me and help rne choose." 
 
 "I must not take up any more of your after- 
 noon." 
 
 "But I want you to help me. You have taste. 
 To Madame Cabriolet's, Gaspare. You will come? 
 Thank you." 
 
 Richard felt a sudden confidence, almost a sense 
 of intimacy. "I sometimes choose my mother's 
 hats, Signorina," he told her. 
 
 At this hour the Corso was feverishly gay. Trem- 
 bling, bounding over the stones, the botti passed at 
 a desperate rate; the cochieri, flapping their reins, 
 cried, "Aye, aye, avanti!" The trams, blatantly out 
 of place, passed screeching on their rails. La Tri- 
 bunal LaVoce del Popolo! L'Osservatore Romano! 
 cried the paper-venders, ragged and brown and im- 
 pudent, and all the bells were carolling to mass. 
 Before the fashionable shops were lined up victorias, 
 barouches, coupes. The nobility were gone in to 
 buy; the coachmen sat on impassive in the dust, 
 cockaded and weighted with bands of gold. 
 
 In making Lord Trevers come with her, Fortunata 
 had an object. For the last years the doors of 
 Madame Cabriolet's had been closed to her. The 
 modiste demanded to see Fortunata's money before 
 seeing her face again. The Contessina had an early 
 acquaintance with debt, she had been prematurely 
 trained to live well and spend nothing. Now, when 
 she chose to buy, she took with her a man of un- 
 doubted wealth, who made a background for her, 
 
 158
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 gave her an air of solidity, as it were. Madame 
 Cabriolet proved most urbane. 
 
 "A hat, Madame ?" And Fortunata, standing be- 
 fore the glass, buried her head in the reverse scrap- 
 baskets then the fashion. To Lord Trevers she 
 would say: "Do you think this one is pretty?" 
 
 And he would answer, "Yes, most awfully," or 
 "No, it's a rotter." 
 
 "What color do you like best?" she asked him. 
 
 "Blue, light pale blue," courageously he told her. 
 
 "Show me all your light-blue hats, Mademoiselle 
 Germaine." And as she tried them on, "Keep this 
 one for a moment, Lord Trevers," she would say. 
 
 He laid his high hat down on the table, and grave- 
 ly, unconsciously took a panama or leghorn into 
 his hands, holding it carefully, almost tenderly, as 
 one might hold a child. And suddenly, "That is a 
 stunner!" he cried, moved by imperative admiration. 
 
 "I like it, too," she admitted. Looking-glass in 
 hand she turned to catch another view. She un- 
 dulated with the rhythm of a dancer. "I shall take 
 this hat. You may charge it. I have a bill here." 
 And the Contessina looked hard at Mademoiselle 
 Germaine. 
 
 "Parfaitement." 
 
 Richard helped Fortunata into the carriage. He 
 was warming toward her. He felt confident, inti- 
 mate, at rest. He laid the rug over her knees. "Are 
 you comfy?" he asked. 
 
 "Thank you, I am comfortable," she answered, 
 almost with reproach. She disapproved of these 
 abbreviations from a big, healthy, grown-up man. 
 
 The air was soft as a caress, enveloping, enam-
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 cured. Every passer-by seemed hurrying to a love 
 tryst. The men brushed past the women murmur- 
 ing, "Che bella, che sympathica!" and the signore 
 came driving from the Pincio, lolling back languidly, 
 conscious of being admired, of being desired. A 
 school of young girls went past, walking two and 
 two, holding. their heads erect with a certain virginal 
 primness, not lacking in charm. They passed with 
 downcast eyes that were supposed to be as yet un- 
 enlightened. She was silent as they drove home. 
 Richard was telling her of Stock-on-Tremp, his place 
 in Wiltshire; of his horses and dogs; his mother and 
 sisters. In fancy Fortunata saw the village, the 
 cottages with low-hanging eaves, thatched in straw; 
 the glorious English park; the pew at church, 
 panelled in oak, brass-railed, curtained with red, and, 
 finally, a home such as one never finds in Italy 
 blazing fires, every comfort, yet the charm of years. 
 She listened, her head averted; a strand of hair, a 
 curl loosened from the rest, fluttered against her 
 temple, tickling, caressing. 
 
 The Colibri's roans stamped into the court of 
 the Palazzo. As they drew up before the steps the 
 echoes reverberated. 
 
 Fortunata gave Lord Trevers her hand. She 
 looked at him directly in the eyes. Her own, all 
 pupil, circled like a cat's with brown and gold, 
 astonished him; his heart gave a double knock. 
 Suddenly she lowered her glance. 
 
 Something took him at the throat, and he forgot 
 to speak. She drew her hand out of his. It slipped 
 through his fingers, hardly returning their pressure. 
 "Shall my man drive you home?" 
 
 1 60
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Oh, thanks, no!" 
 
 She sprang up the steps; the door was open; 
 Nello stood on the threshold. Fortunata said a few 
 quick words to him, and with a thrill of laughter she 
 passed into the hall that showed as black as a tunnel. 
 The old servant looked after her kindly. 
 
 Love is born in a glance, in a turn of the head. 
 It can be caught like a contagious fever in a second. 
 Lord Trevers was the least sensitive of men, the 
 last to be a prey to moods. Only sad when he had 
 a sorrow, only lonely when he was alone, yet now 
 he was overtaken with a melancholy as inexplicable 
 as it was abject. Somehow, he felt as though he 
 had been deserted, as though something had been 
 taken from him. All the afternoon he had had at 
 his side a warm, sensible, responsive presence a girl 
 who seemed to trust him, to rely on him who some- 
 how gave the impression that she thought of him 
 when he was not with her. Yet in a moment, at the 
 sight of her home, her open door, he had ceased to 
 exist for her. 
 
 "Coco!" cried a harsh yet fatuous voice, and 
 Richard, looking up, caught sight of the Colibri's 
 parrot, squatting on the outside of one of the lower 
 windows. The bird was chained by the leg to the 
 iron fretwork. Having attracted Richard's atten- 
 tion, Coco began to show off, waddling the length 
 of the sill, turning in his toes with the gayety of an 
 old buffoon. 
 
 "Pretty Polly!" cried Richard, all abstraction. 
 
 The bird stood still, and fixed Lord Trevers 
 through and through pierced him, held him, with 
 a cold, ironic stare. Somehow, Dick was reminded 
 ii 161
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 of the Colibri. Coco's pupils kept contracting and 
 expanding with a monotonous regularity. The bird's 
 scrutiny abashed Lord Trevers, and he strode from 
 the court. A sense of void encompassed him, the 
 streets and buildings seemed strange. 
 
 It's a crime, he thought one might as well sell 
 a girl at auction. Foreign women have no show. 
 They'd be all right, some of them, if they'd been 
 brought up in England.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 BON soir, Mademoiselle." 
 In one of the smaller rooms giving off the 
 sala after dinner, Monsieur de la Tour Bichelle 
 bowed over Fortunata's hand. 
 
 She caught the scrutiny of his wise little eyes 
 a look suspicious, uneasy. As night after night they 
 sat down facing each other, on either side of a con- 
 sole table, the Contessina crossed her hands over 
 the chilly marble top. A candle burned between 
 them, its flame shooting up. It seemed to Fortu- 
 nata's fancy to stretch with boredom. Antonia had 
 offered herself as the duenna. Don Luigi was will- 
 ing to see them through the evening. The chap- 
 erones withdrew to the farther end of the room, 
 to their favorite bench set in a window giving 
 on the garden. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched 
 something broad and silvery moving low down 
 among the trees, and knew that the moon had 
 risen. 
 
 The Prince leaned over the table. His smile was 
 bewitching, but not too insidious "arch," he called 
 it, as became a gentleman in the company of a jeune 
 fille. His voice seemed to her to come from far off. 
 He cleared his throat. The sound was ominous, 
 determination being scraped together. He has some- 
 thing disagreeable to say, she thought. 
 
 163
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "An hour ago, Mademoiselle" he spoke with an 
 effort "the Comte de Brillac told me he had seen 
 you this afternoon on the Pincio with a young man, 
 unchaperoned." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 She had risen and was standing before the hearth. 
 
 "Permit me to tell you that such conduct is not 
 well looked on in France." 
 
 "But we are not in France." 
 
 "That is true" a spot of red flaming in either 
 cheek. What with the newness of his wig, the color 
 gave him the air of a dreadful little doll. "We are 
 in Italy; we are in Rome, where scandal breeds in a 
 breath and grows on a nothing a nothing." Each 
 time he repeated the word he thrust out his chin, 
 his lids palpitated, beating his eyeballs. 
 
 "You forget, Monsieur, I am an Italian. I have 
 lived my life in Rome. I know all this." 
 
 "And the convenances, do you not count them?" 
 
 "No, not in your sense. If by convenances you 
 mean the necessity of a spy always at a girl's side, 
 the reputation that is kept by watching might as 
 well be lost." 
 
 "This is not the conversation of a jeune fille. 
 You are engaged, Mademoiselle, although you seem 
 to choose to forget it. We are not among savages! 
 We are not among Americans! A young girl is 
 chaperoned in civilized countries. She doesn't drive 
 out all the afternoon, who knows where, alone with 
 a young man no, not even if he is an English- 
 man!" He wagged his finger at her, jibbering like 
 an ape. 
 
 Her aesthetic sense was shocked. Only a very 
 164
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 young face can stand the disfiguring violence of 
 passion. What an object! she thought, and her 
 glance ran up and down him, scorching him. 
 
 "Madonna mia! But you are very angry! You 
 see, already we cannot agree. You are free, Mon- 
 sieur!" She flung her arm toward the window, 
 toward the lovers, whose silhouettes showed close 
 together in the dim radiance of the moon. 
 
 Immediately he was afraid the future, life, his 
 very breath seemed leaving him. He held out his 
 arms: "Ah! ma Fortune!" he whimpered. 
 
 "The man I marry," she said, more calmly, "must 
 trust me." 
 
 "Mais si! Mais si!" 
 
 "Believe in me. Have no more evil thought of 
 me than the Madonna." She made the sign of the 
 cross, all her Italian blood astir in her. 
 
 "I promise you I swear it! Forgive me!" he 
 mumbled, humble, incoherent. 
 
 ' ' Very well, for this once. I am very tired, Prince ; 
 will you excuse me? Good-night." She did not 
 offer him her hand, but bowed, looking at him in- 
 tently. She pushed aside the portiere against 
 which she was standing, stepped back, the heavy 
 folds fell into place, and she was gone! 
 
 The Prince's eyes filled with self-pity. 
 
 " I am an imbecile!" He stared forlornly at the 
 curtain that still trembled with her going. 
 
 "Good-night, Marquise. Good-night, Monsieur." 
 
 The chaperones gave no answer they had for- 
 gotten him. 
 
 Against the luminous strip that marked the open 
 window their profiles were defined, turned toward 
 
 165
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 each other. They were silent in the thrilling 
 ecstasy of nearness. 
 
 Fortunata saw Lord Trevers at balls, dinners, 
 theatre-parties. He said, "How do you do," and 
 "Good-bye." He never called, never asked her to 
 dance; he spoke only of the weather, yet her in- 
 stinct told her a sort of second sight that his heart 
 was changed to her. Where she was, he came, 
 though never directly. He talked to her through 
 others, as it were. If he had a joke to tell, he told 
 it to some one opposite her that she might hear. 
 They passed on the Pincio and he bowed without a 
 smile, but he made his horse cavort; he showed off 
 for her, he by nature the most unconscious of men. 
 Little by little her manner toward him changed, 
 even though she talked of the advance of the sea- 
 son, the poor system of heating in Rome, the un- 
 sanitary drainage, the consolidated railroads. She 
 grew more feminine, more personal, but whatever 
 progress she might have made, for the moment her 
 hands were tied. Monsieur de la Tour Bichelle was 
 a millstone about her neck. Her aunt, she thought, 
 had influenced her too much. The Colibri's talk of 
 pearls, of French chdteaux, had turned her head. 
 The Princess could not be expected to see that old 
 man had the face of a gargoyle. "It must be nice to 
 have a husband one could be proud of, to walk by 
 one's side, to show," she told herself. " A foil is all 
 very well, but I should like to marry a man that 
 other women would find handsome." 
 
 As the spring waned, sometimes, very rarely, 
 Richard came to call. He sat solemn and unenter- 
 taining, his hat in one hand, his stick in the other. 
 
 1 66
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 He rarely looked at Fortunata, and all he said was 
 "Ah!" or "er," in a big voice. One afternoon he 
 stayed until the sun went down. Monsieur de la 
 Tour Bichelle had not come, nor Fortunata's other 
 friends, whom Lord Trevers had grown to hate. 
 They were on the balcony, he and she, looking out 
 across the garden. He held out his hand to say 
 good-bye. She shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "You must stay to dinner. The Colibri would be 
 delighted, she likes you." 
 
 He accepted with a sense of guilt. They grew 
 silent. A sudden gloom had overtaken him. Lean- 
 ing against the balustrade she looked from under 
 straight brows across the darkening garden. One 
 foot was flung out behind her, the arched instep and 
 high heel turned up almost with insolence. This 
 evening she was dressed simply, yet her native 
 attraction, the supple lines of her body, the grace 
 of her attitude gave her, as always, a singular dis- 
 tinction. So penetrating was her physical charm, 
 the woman spoke in her so strongly, that what she 
 chose to wear was of little account. Her skirt hung in 
 soft folds over exaggeratedly narrow hips. The open 
 lacework of her blouse showed glimpses of ribbon. 
 Through the embroidered collar glinted her young 
 neck and shoulders. A faint fragrance emanated 
 from her like the perfume which the sun draws from 
 the heliotrope. A wave of tenderness submerged 
 the unsusceptible Richard, a poignant emotion, not 
 untouched by melancholy, born of the sweetness of 
 the evening and the girl's troubling nearness. He 
 drew closer, brushing her wrist as though inad- 
 vertently with his hand. She did not seem to feel 
 
 167
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 his touch, no conscious look shot into her eyes. 
 The rapid approach of the night held her apparently 
 enthralled. 
 
 Charming girl! thought Dick, as he walked 
 through the court, and in fancy he heard again the 
 careful, pretty English the correct English of a 
 foreigner, a voice with musical breaks. The stars 
 were on their pilgrimage; it was a majestic night. 
 
 A week later the English Ambassador gave a ball. 
 Lord Trevers stood in the embrasure of the window, 
 watching, when Fortunata passed, waltzing lan- 
 guidly in her partner's embrace dissatisfying sight. 
 Trevers thought her too much denuded of her 
 bodice, her mode of dancing significant. In his 
 heart he had already appropriated her. He was 
 disappointed, disillusioned, and yet she did not 
 seem vulgar. She had nothing of that buoyant 
 desire to excite. Indifferent, she moved among the 
 redder, more dishevelled dancers, and in her very 
 elegance lay the something suggestive. Dick was 
 thoroughly annoyed. He determined to punish her 
 and not to go near her. She passed, of his presence 
 seemingly unconscious. Again she was near, and 
 now, whether inadvertently or of a purpose, her 
 glance met his. For a moment her look searched 
 his eyes. She gave no sign of recognition. The 
 next measure turned her slim back toward him, her 
 narrow waist half -hidden by her partner's hand. 
 The waltz succeeding had trills cadences which 
 would have stirred St. Anthony. 
 
 "Will you dance, Contessina?" Lord Trevers stern- 
 ly asked of Fortunata. 
 
 They waltzed together. Like all Britons, when 
 1 68
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 dancing, he preserved a decent melancholy. She 
 liked his arm around her, his strength, his youth. 
 She forgot her fiance, the dreary old husk. The 
 waltz came to an end. Lord Trevers led her to 
 the stairs, and on the steps they sat, side by side. 
 He stretched out his long legs, his never-ending 
 feet. He looked away from her down into the 
 hall. A quadrille was begun. The Italians pir- 
 ouetted after their fashion. She talked in her 
 prettiest English. He answered in monosyllables, 
 seemingly abstracted, taciturn. She glanced at his 
 gloomy profile, recognized his expression, triumph 
 ran in her blood, and she said to herself: I can 
 make him love me! 
 
 He turned and looked at her, and without prel- 
 ude, "When are you to be married?" he asked. 
 
 "In June." 
 
 "In England they say that that is a lucky month. 
 Are you superstitious?" 
 
 "No, but careful." 
 
 "Shall you live in Italy?" 
 
 "No, France." 
 
 "Will you be happy there?" 
 
 "Happy, that's a big word." 
 
 And even as she spoke, Monsieur de la Tour 
 Bichelle passed through the hall. He wore the 
 legion of honor and the order of the Golden Fleece, 
 for it was an evening for full regalia. His smalls 
 betrayed the size of the spindles to which he had 
 the courage to trust his weight. 
 
 The two young people were silent. Richard 
 looked into space. Fortunata leaned her forehead 
 on the banister, the breeze made by the dancers 
 
 169
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 stirred her hair, the violins kept up an amorous 
 wailing. 
 
 The Princess Colibri's bedroom was hung with 
 draperies representing the discovery of the sleeping 
 "Endymion" by Diana. In full lunary splendor, 
 against a background of sombre forest of green and 
 tawny brown, the long-limbed goddess, followed at 
 a distance by her court, was seen coming lightly 
 across the grass. The huntress held in one hand 
 a spear, and in her steps strode a lean greyhound. 
 She was of an effulgent whiteness, while in the dusky 
 wood her nymphs shone like pearls. 
 
 To-night the Colibri's room, seen by the hanging- 
 lamp, was filled with vacillating shadows. Built on 
 the roof of the Palazzo Colibri, early in the four- 
 teenth century, this study had served at one time 
 for the contemplation of the stars and the drawing 
 of horoscopes. Now a carved ceiling blotted out 
 the sky. Still the room was of its kind distinctive, 
 in shape octagonal, and panelled in dark wood. The 
 furniture was of every country, every period, squat, 
 or spindle-shanked. The tables were strewn with 
 antiquities and depressing relics, and presented the 
 uneasy, overburdened aspect peculiar to curiosity 
 shops. The writing-table was a chaos of papers, 
 books, torn letters, and bits of sealing-wax; while 
 above, defined against the black panels, hung a 
 cross of palest ivory, from which drooped a melan- 
 choly Christ. 
 
 The Princess sat at her desk. She was still in her 
 full regalia of feathers, but had removed her jewels. 
 Necklace, bracelets, and earrings lay in an inter- 
 
 170
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 woven mass, gleaming in the lamplight. The Coli- 
 bri was reading, yet it was apparent from the way 
 in which, at the least noise, her keen but heavy- 
 lidded eyes turned toward the door, that she was 
 more intent on listening for a sound, a footstep. 
 The wind screamed in the chimneys and, whistling 
 under the Princess's door, swelled the carpet in un- 
 canny fashion. 
 
 A light step came up the stair. "Fortunata!" 
 called the Colibri. 
 
 The door opened, and the young girl stood smiling 
 on the threshold. 
 
 The Princess spoke: "Come in. Close the door. 
 Fortunata, a rich man has the privilege of being 
 ugly, but de la Tour Bichelle abuses it." 
 
 Fortunata nodded her agreement. 
 
 "Really, he is unusually plain." 
 
 "Unusually." 
 
 "Personally, I find him most tiresome." 
 
 "So do I, most." 
 
 "Then why do you marry him?" 
 
 Fortunata was so startled as to cast up her eyes, 
 alight with a wild innocence. 
 
 " It was never his beauty that attracted you. 
 Suppose, then, that a man, young and handsome, 
 with even more brilliant prospects " 
 
 "Richard Trevers," said Fortunata, blandly. 
 
 "I like a mind that from a few words understands. 
 My niece, break off with this antiquated bore." 
 
 "But," protested Fortunata, "now that things 
 have gone so far, what possible reason can I give?" 
 
 "What excuse do you need, since a more ac- 
 ceptable match presents itself?" 
 
 171
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "How can I tell him that? It would be so tact- 
 less." 
 
 "Say that, now your eyes are opened, you see 
 you do not love him ; that without love no marriage 
 is valid." 
 
 "Somehow, I hate to do it, tiresome as he is." 
 
 "Upon my word, Fortunata, I am at a loss to 
 understand your attitude. We were born to at- 
 tain, to climb, and work. Nothing is worth having 
 that costs no pain. It's lucky for us when the pain 
 is somebody else's. We must break many a friend- 
 ship and make many a wound before we can hope 
 to succeed." 
 
 All transforming is the perversity that can gain 
 upon the heart. The Princess gave her rendering 
 of the word duty, and nothing could be more im- 
 pressive than her delivery. Singular are the forms 
 that duty can be made to assume. Hardly had 
 Fortunata listened half an hour to this harangue 
 before she was assured that her happiness nay, her 
 conscience called on her to break with her ancient
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WITH a harsh squeak the Colibri's chair grated 
 back. She rose from the table; the others 
 imitated her, all but Fortunata, who would not 
 forego her coffee. 
 
 Eugenio lurched slightly as he crossed the floor. 
 
 "Two glasses of vino rosso and he can't walk 
 straight," said the Princess, looking after him. 
 "Ah, his poor father would have been ashamed. 
 Ugo had the best head in Rome." And her Ex- 
 cellency sighed with genuine regret. "Luigi, take 
 Antonia to walk in the garden; the air will do her 
 good. She is as yellow as a quince. Come, Guido." 
 And the Colibri passed out of the room leaning on 
 Dacampagna's arm. 
 
 A window faced Fortunata; it was unshuttered, 
 and gave her a view of the open sky. She watched 
 the moon, shaped like a sickle, rise white as steel 
 in the heaven. The crescent gave out a severe, 
 chill radiance. The houses opposite showed like 
 lumpy monsters, much behumped. 
 
 "Contessina, a visitor." 
 
 She was startled, and turned to find Nello stand- 
 ing by her side. She glanced at the bit of card- 
 board and read ' ' Lord Trevers. ' ' Her heart skipped 
 a beat. 
 
 "Show Lord Trevers into the sala, Nello."
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Scusi, Signorina, but her Excellency and the 
 Signer Marchese are talking affairs. Her Excellency 
 thought possibly the Contessina might " 
 
 "Very well, ask Lord Trevers to come here." 
 
 She looked after Nello with a seraphic smile. She 
 was so happy, so imbecilely happy, that she could 
 have found it in her heart to run after the old ser- 
 vant and shake him by both hands. 
 
 "I am early; you haven't finished dinner." 
 
 Dick Trevers' s voice boomed out of the shadows 
 at the farther end of the vast, dim room. She 
 turned her face toward him. 
 
 "I can't see you; come here and talk to me!" she 
 called, laughing. 
 
 He was near her in an instant, as though he had 
 stepped from the gobelin tapestry at her side. She 
 looked up at him. He was regarding her with the 
 light in his eyes she liked, his blond head defined 
 against the dark hangings and sombre panels of oak. 
 Gravely she smiled at him, purposely avoiding any 
 touch of coquetry. 
 
 "Have some coffee with me," she said in her vi- 
 brant voice. 
 
 "Er thank you, I have dined." 
 
 He had not thought to face the siren all alone. 
 A foolish panic seized him, a something numbing and 
 ecstatic. 
 
 "Er the fact is, I wanted to see the Princess 
 Colibri. She asked me to bring her some photos I 
 took of the Matterhorn." 
 
 "What! you take photographs? You are the 
 hardest man to understand. You are so reserved 
 that only bit by bit one finds out your tastes."
 
 "You're ma-making game of me." 
 
 "No, never. Now, sit down; here is some coffee. 
 Yes, you must; I know you like it." 
 
 He sat down, crossing his big hands on the edge 
 of the table. 
 
 "I'd like to show the Princess " 
 
 "The Princess is busy; you must put up with me 
 for the moment," she greeted him. She gave him 
 a sudden, intimate smile. 
 
 The undertow was taking hold of him again, the 
 tide of love, of desire. He found nothing to say. 
 He watched her, and at that moment she seemed 
 to him the most adorable woman he had ever seen; 
 he wondered how he could ever have thought her 
 anything but beautiful. She was busy with the 
 coffee; she measured out the cognac like a pretty 
 witch preparing a love-potion. As she bent her 
 head in the lamplight, her hair glowed like satin, 
 and among its folds nestled her ears, pink and 
 delicate like roses. 
 
 As she handed him his cup her hand brushed 
 against his as if by accident. 
 
 ' ' Show me the pictures of the Matterhorn, ' ' she said. 
 
 He obeyed, glad to do what he had come for. 
 He took the photographs out of his pocket, spread- 
 ing them on the table. 
 
 "What! were you way up there? I should never 
 have the courage." 
 
 He took her at her word. "A woman ought to 
 be brave," he said, gravely. "I often used to think 
 when I was looking at you, 'She's got lots of pluck, 
 lots of grit.' That's one of the things I liked about 
 you."
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "One of the things you liked about me?" she re- 
 peated softly. "Why, I never imagined there was 
 anything you liked about me. I had an idea; yes, 
 I really did, that you disliked me." 
 
 "I did rather, at first." 
 
 "Shall I tell you why?" 
 
 "Yes, I should like to know." 
 
 "You were used to being flattered yes, you know 
 you were. You are the kind of man women flatter. 
 Now, I am proud. I never pay a man a compli- 
 ment. I want him to pay them to me." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me that before ?" He spoke 
 quite seriously. "I can give you lots." 
 
 "When I met you," she answered, her voice 
 charged with meaning, ' ' I had no right to have any 
 man tell me pleasant things." She looked across 
 into the shadow, and then suddenly said, "Some- 
 how, for my own peace of mind, I wouldn't have 
 dared to listen to you." 
 
 "Ah!" he answered, in deep water. 
 
 There was silence. The photographs lay before 
 them, the tumblers half-full of wine, the nut husks 
 and fruit. The candles had burned down ; only the 
 lamp gave out its light. 
 
 Fortunata started in again. "And so you were 
 up there on that little white peak for days with 
 only a guide? How lonely it must have been up 
 among those cold mountains!" 
 
 "It was jolly cold, I can tell you." 
 
 "I sometimes think that one need not go away 
 off among the mountains to be lonely," she vent- 
 ured. After a pause: "One can stay at home 
 sometimes for that. Don't you think so?" 
 
 176
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Yes, if one doesn't like one's people," he an- 
 swered, with unusual perception. "Don't you like 
 yours ?" He had the indelicacy as well as the 
 reserve of the English. She gave a faint smile, 
 and spread out her hands in a quick, Southern 
 gesture. 
 
 "I am among strangers yes, I mean it. My 
 mother is ill as for the Princess well, you know 
 her. The others have their own lives to think 
 about. That's natural, perhaps, and yet I am 
 making a great sacrifice for them. I don't know 
 why I tell you all this, unless because I always think 
 of you as a friend. Am I wrong?" 
 
 "Perhaps but whatever I am, I think of you 
 always." 
 
 He was losing his head. He knew it. 
 
 "Yes, I am giving up everything for them. Am 
 I right to do it ? I don't know. I want to ask you ; 
 I will do what you say. My mother is poor; Eugenio 
 has debts; my little sister, Francesca, you know, 
 is penniless." (Pig, she thought, to lie so!) "Mon- 
 sieur de la Tour Bichelle has promised to help all 
 these people, but it is hard for me." For the mo- 
 ment she was herself deceived, her eyes filled with 
 tears. "I am very unhappy!" 
 
 "Ah, Fortunata!" he cried. The word burst from 
 him unconsciously. She was aware of an unac- 
 countable pleasure in hearing him speak her name. 
 She bent toward him, looking into his eyes with a 
 look more than friendly. 
 
 "You will tell me what to do, my friend." 
 
 His face underwent a sudden change. He took 
 both her hands in his.
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Your hands are hot," he said, in a low, queer 
 voice. 
 
 "And yours," she answered. Her eyes still looked 
 into his, as the enchanted ladies must have looked 
 at Sir Galahad in the wood. He put his lips to her 
 hands, then looked up into her face. 
 
 "Signorina!" The sound came from the shadows 
 behind them. They started apart. 
 
 "Yes, Nello?" she answered, in a voice that 
 surprised her. 
 
 "His Excellency, the Prince de la Tour Bichelle, 
 has waited for over an hour in the sala. His Ex- 
 cellency supplicates the Signorina to come to him, 
 if only for a moment." 
 
 She grew as pale as though she had heard bad 
 news. 
 
 "Tell his Excellency I will be with him instantly." 
 
 Lord Trevers rose. "I sha'n't detain you." He 
 was as red as she was pale. 
 
 "Don't go!" she murmured, politely. 
 
 "I must. Will you show these photographs to 
 your aunt for me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They stood looking at each other, abashed and 
 sad. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, with an effort. 
 
 "A rivederci!" 
 
 He held the portiere back for her to pass through, 
 and followed her into the hall. There stood Nello 
 with a light. Fortunata longed to strangle the old 
 man; instead, she passed into the sala, looking as 
 gentle as a nun. Lord Trevers, with an easy stride, 
 went rapidly down the stairs. 
 
 178
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Ah, my dear one! My little Fortunata! Ah, 
 my treasure!" 
 
 De la Tour Bichelle was whispering over Fortu- 
 nata' s unresponsive hand. 
 
 "Let us sit down," the Contessina said. 
 
 He drew two chairs before the sculptured hearth, 
 and down they sat, she as bored and mysterious as 
 a sphinx, he all hunched up like an eager gnome. 
 
 Santinello and the Princess were playing at chess. 
 Guido was standing by, trying to look as though he 
 understood the game. The Cardinal was getting the 
 best of it. His fingers seemed to have eyes, so 
 knowingly they handled the chessmen. 
 
 "Yes no yes," Fortunata answered her fiance. 
 For once she was unable to rise to the occasion. 
 
 "I admire," he said to her, "in you that delicate, 
 mysterious languor that so well becomes a woman 
 
 "Che diavolo!" The Princess was beaten, and 
 with a backward sweep of the hand she brushed 
 the chessmen from the board. "You must all go," 
 she said. "I am tired." 
 
 As he kissed Fortunata's hand, "Until to-morrow, 
 my angel," the Prince murmured. He made her 
 Excellency a profound bow. "Where, then, is 
 Madame la Contesse and that dear Marquise, where 
 is she that one may press her hand?" 
 
 To the amazement of all, the Colibri burst into a 
 loud laugh, rocking herself to and fro in an agony 
 of grotesque mirth. The Prince, who stood before 
 her making his adieux, was surprised, confused, at 
 this fit of uncouth merriment. 
 
 "Yes, where has my wife been all this evening?" 
 Guido asked. 
 
 179
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "The Marchesa has no doubt retired," the Car- 
 dinal interposed in his soothing, slippery voice. 
 "To-day is the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi, Don 
 Guido, if you remember. The Marchesa is devout, 
 too conscientious, I sometimes fear. I only hope 
 her health may stand the stress her conscience puts 
 upon it. You have married a woman of rare piety, 
 Don Guido." 
 
 "Si, Eminenza," Dacampagna answered, after a 
 pause. His face was sullen, a crafty look shot into 
 his eyes, and he added, in an uncontrollable burst 
 of violence, "But when a woman is too good she's 
 not easy to live with." 
 
 The Princess had calmed down ; she was mopping 
 her eyes and giving retrospective sighs and sobs of 
 amusement. 
 
 The Cardinal passed out of the room, his robes 
 whispering about his ankles. 
 
 "Good-night, Princess," murmured Monsieur de 
 la Tour Bichelle again, and with exaggerated chiv- 
 alry, he added, "I throw my head at your feet." 
 
 The Colibri was bored with the diffident old gen- 
 tleman, and called after his retreating figure, "I 
 throw my feet at your head!" 
 
 "Antonia! Che diavolo, Antonia!" Guido was 
 heard in the hall, calling up the stairs. 
 
 The Colibri went to the window that gave on the 
 garden and drew aside the curtains. High in a black 
 sky the moon hung as delicate and iridescent as a 
 jewel. Fortunata heard her whisper to herself, like 
 a witch communing with the night. 
 
 Eugenio came in still wearing his overcoat. He 
 dragged himself limply across the floor. He went 
 
 1 80
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 toward the hearth, drawing off his muffler and 
 coughing a little. Fortunata was leaning on the 
 mantel. 
 
 "Fortunata, she hardly spoke to me to-night." 
 And he stood staring at the fireplace. 
 
 "You are shivering," his sister said to him. 
 
 "It is cold," he answered, unconsciously holding 
 out his hands toward the empty hearth. 
 
 "Madonna! But it's freezing for May!" agreed 
 the Princess. "Fortunata, to-night Raoul's teeth 
 will chatter in their glass." Her Excellency's smile 
 almost closed her eyes. "Pleasant dreams, my 
 children!" 
 
 The Colibri took in hand a candle, drew aside a 
 fold of tapestry, opened a little door and passed 
 into the turret staircase that led to her study. 
 
 Fortunata and Eugenio were left in semi-darkness 
 listening to the Colibri' s feet feeling their way, 
 creak, creak. The steps grew muffled and passed 
 out of hearing. 
 
 "A coarse old person, our aunt," observed 
 Eugenio. "Isn't she grotesque?" 
 
 "Absolutely gross," admitted Fortunata. 
 
 The Contessina was not unused to engaging herself 
 to be married and then disengaging herself. There 
 are some habits, however, to which we cannot grow 
 accustomed, and Fortunata passed an agitated night. 
 
 The next morning, nervous and shattered, she 
 descended just as the Prince de la Tour Bichelle was 
 announced. There he stood, bowing on the hearth- 
 rug, grasping a bouquet as compact as a cauli- 
 flower, and leering like a dreadful old Bacchus. 
 Fortunata, all in black, advanced upon her be- 
 
 181
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 trothed with a melancholy dignity which inspired 
 the beholder with a premonition of ill. 
 
 "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked, in the 
 voice of a sleepwalker. 
 
 "Dreams?" repeated his Excellency, nervously. 
 
 "Monsieur de la Tour Bichelle," cried Fortunata, 
 with a wild look, letting herself fall into a chair, "I 
 must ask you to give me back my freedom. I am 
 unworthy of you; forgive me, but I do not love you. 
 I was warned last night in a dream. I should be 
 doing you an injustice, an irretrievable wrong. 
 Profoundly I admire your talent, your wit, your 
 culture, but I cannot be your wife." 
 
 "What is this what is this, ma cherie ?" cried the 
 poor old thing, skipping forward with an agitation 
 painful to behold. 
 
 "Here is your ring, Prince. Do not think me 
 ungrateful. You are my dearest, dearest friend, 
 and always shall be that is, if you will let me call 
 you so." 
 
 He made a pretence of taking the ring, and tried 
 to retain her hand. "You've promised yourself to 
 me, and I will not let you escape me!" he squeaked, 
 with so diabolical an air that Fortunata took refuge 
 behind a table. 
 
 "A marriage without love would be to me 
 
 "But I love you, I love you!" he shrieked, trip- 
 ping after her. "I will give you everything, ma 
 mignonne! Such jewels sapphires, pearls, rubies, 
 like your mouth. You shall be more fted, more 
 adored than any woman in Paris. Oh, my treas- 
 ure, say that you will!" His eyes were full of rheumy 
 tears. 
 
 182
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Prince," said Fortunata, with dignity from over 
 the back of the sofa, "my conscience, my heart 
 
 At this moment into the room sailed the Princess, 
 in a turban nearly as large as a life-preserver. Her 
 Excellency was buoyed up by furbelows, ruffles, and 
 voluminous overskirts. She held in her arms the 
 spaniel Mimi, caressing the little beast's sleek head. 
 
 "What," demanded her Excellency, "are you play- 
 ing at tag, Fortunata?" 
 
 "Princess! Princess!" whimpered the doting old 
 man, holding out his shaking hands, one of which 
 still grasped the gay bouquet, sheathed in filigree 
 paper "she won't marry me, my Fortunata won't 
 marry me!" Actually he shed tears of senile rage 
 and disappointment. "Princess," he pleaded, "ap- 
 peal to her ambition, her pride! No queen shall be 
 more " 
 
 But Fortunata had already slipped through the 
 door. 
 
 The old dodderer took out his pocket-handker- 
 chief. "Souvent femme varie, but how have I of- 
 fended her? Than yesterday she was never kinder 
 why this change, why?" 
 
 "Raoul, you are old, and tears do not become 
 you." 
 
 "I do not comprehend you, Madame." 
 
 "You are a hideous hobgoblin!" said the Prin- 
 cess, and without another word she sailed past him 
 and was gone. Monsieur de la Tour Bichelle was 
 left alone in his dapper waistcoat and subtly shaded 
 suit. 
 
 "She won't want this," he said, and he laid the 
 bouquet in the waste-basket, with a wheezy little 
 
 183
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 sigh. It seemed a pity, for the roses were the 
 loveliest and the most fragrant that the Italian 
 spring could create. 
 
 From her window Fortunata, watching, saw a 
 wizened, a very old gentleman, his hat poised from 
 habit at a glad angle, totter dismally across the pave- 
 ment and hide himself in his brougham. In spite 
 of herself, her heart ached. She had grown attached 
 to the Prince as one might to something very old, 
 incomprehensible, and frail a grandparent, for in- 
 stance. 
 
 It soon filtered out that the Signorina Rivallo had 
 changed her mind once more. Some said that she 
 could not stand the cackling dotard; others, that 
 he had found her to be a jeune fille more than 
 originate. The few who understood Fortunata knew 
 she had met something better. Gossips blew in to 
 the Palazzo Colibri ; the Princess proved muter than 
 the Sphinx. Antonia held the visitors' hands and 
 told them, in all sincerity, that Fortunata's heart 
 could not be bought. The visitors said, "Fortunata 
 is a splendid girl," but they knew better. As for 
 Fortunata's mother, she took her pills and polished 
 her ear-trumpet much as usual the engagement 
 was broken, and she cried rather more than when it 
 was first announced. 
 
 Lord Trevers, playing billiards at the club, heard 
 the news. The balls went askew and he was beaten. 
 Why had she not married and gone out of his life ? 
 Then he might have forgotten her, but now In- 
 decision, disquietude possessed him. He was afraid 
 to decide. On the one hand was Stock-on -Tremp 
 waiting for its mistress an Englishwoman and of 
 
 184
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the English Church, a girl whose name should be as 
 clean as she herself was young and innocent. He 
 thought of his mother proud, stiff, moulded to the 
 honor and prejudices of her race. On the other 
 hand was Fortunata! To give her up was as easy 
 as to hold one's breath and die. 
 
 Fortunata grew disquieted. She had proved her- 
 self free to be won, yet Lord Trevers did not come 
 impetuously forward in fact, did not come forward 
 at all. He appeared to avoid her, passed her hastily, 
 bowed to her guiltily, spoke to her only when forced. 
 Fortunata, always optimistic, thought in his manner 
 to read confession of a fatal weakness. The Princess 
 Colibri, as ever ungenerous and inconsistent, taunted 
 her niece. She quoted the English proverb to the 
 effect that a bird in the hand is worth two in the 
 bush. Had Fortunata sought to justify herself, she 
 might have answered, "Who advised me to run the 
 risk?" As it was, she merely lowered her eyelids 
 and smiled mysteriously. The Princess was reas- 
 sured, and brought to believe that her niece knew 
 more than she told. Fortunata was mortified secret- 
 ly. She had staked her all, and apparently lost. 
 She had boasted of a conquest, and had not come 
 off the winner. Should she, who had attracted so 
 many useless men, let Dick Trevers, possessed of 
 every quality ever hoped for in a husband, escape 
 her? Things can't drag on this way, thought she. 
 I must take a decisive step. I'll go away to Perugia. 
 I'll take mother with me, although she bores me. 
 I'll be gone a week, and then he'll see how he likes 
 Rome without me. 
 
 The next day she was gone, hurrying her mother 
 185
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 with her. The Contessa dreaded travel, loathed 
 change, regretted the walls that knew her pains and 
 aches, but was carried off by her daughter's in- 
 domitable will. 
 
 On the morrow Richard was passing through the 
 Piazza del Popolo, his head above the crowd. The 
 sun was at its brightest, the flower-girls ran after 
 him calling their wares ; of themselves his feet took 
 the via Vittorio Emanuele. I can't call on her now, 
 he thought of a sudden it would be in such beastly 
 taste. 
 
 Then he drew himself up short. 
 
 I sha'n't go near her for another week. 
 
 He kept his word; but that week, like the week 
 before it, was hell. He had made up his mind that 
 within three days, on Monday, he would hear from 
 her. She might ask him to tea to thank him for some 
 books he had loaned her. When Wednesday came, 
 passed, and no word from her, he was taken with a 
 sadness disproportionate to its cause. Balls, theatres, 
 concerts he met her nowhere. He longed to hear 
 her spoken of; he was forever bringing up her name; 
 but would then turn from the subject in a panic 
 before he could be answered. He rode the Pincio, 
 and at every turning suffered a palpitation it was 
 part of his sickness to take every woman within 
 eye-reach for her. Friday came, and found him in 
 a fever to see her thirsty, hungry for a look of her. 
 
 The sun was going down. In the sanguinary 
 light the majordomo stood at the Colibri gates, 
 looking as red as Satan. 
 
 "For the Signorina Rivallo," said Richard, hand- 
 ing him a card. The man smiled in commiseration. 
 
 186
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Eccellenze, the Signorina has gone to the North, 
 to Perugia." 
 
 A panic, an insane fright, took hold of Dick. 
 
 "When will she be home?" 
 
 "Eccellenze, I am not informed." The majordo- 
 mo was reserved. His people were of position; the 
 world claimed them; their time was not their own. 
 
 Lord Trevers turned to go. She had left the city ! 
 He might not see her for days, for months! He 
 might never see her again! All at once his life 
 looked aimless, empty, without reason for being. 
 
 "Attenzione!" 
 
 A carriage sweeping around the curve at full 
 speed all but ran him down. It was the Colibri's 
 victoria, her great roans and clanking harness, her 
 liveried footmen hanging on behind. The Princess's 
 head-dress, suggestive of a feather duster, fluttered 
 in the wind. She held a spaniel in her lap, and 
 another in the crook of her arm; her boa blew out 
 behind her like a fiery snake. At sight of Richard 
 she aired her teeth and, turning, said something to 
 the footmen. They laughed, in duty bound. The 
 Princess cursed her servants or joked with them, as 
 the spirit moved her. Lord Trevers moved aside 
 for the carriage to pass, and lifted his hat without 
 a smile. The beldame drove on, grinning through 
 her furs like a wolf. 
 
 Yonder goes, thought Richard, the guardian, the 
 teacher of the woman I love. A foreboding came 
 over him, a presage of misfortune. The passion that 
 held him, he knew, could do him no good. Through 
 the court the Princess's voice echoed, strident, in- 
 sincere, jeering her servants, teasing her dogs. She 
 
 187
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 climbed the Palazzo steps, rapping with her cane, 
 and passed through the gaping archway, like the 
 evil genius of the house. 
 
 At the end of the week Fortunata was back, 
 Richard was informed. Suddenly he discovered 
 that he liked Rome. At the turning of a corner 
 now he might meet happiness; but he did not go 
 where his joy, his obsession lay. For some reason 
 he no longer dared do so. He was cured, or so he 
 told himself, and yet his constant thought was how 
 and when he should first see her again. He wanted 
 to be put to the proof, he said. Their meeting came 
 about in this way: 
 
 Richard had stepped into the Grand Hotel to 
 leave some cards, when he heard a voice at his side 
 questioning the cashier a woman's voice. At the 
 sound of it, his heart bounded into his throat. He 
 turned. Yes, it was she! At sight of her profile, 
 her pointed chin and captivating nose, he realized 
 that since he had known her his thoughts had never 
 been free from her. He spoke her name. She 
 turned toward him, and they began to talk he with 
 a slight stammer characteristic of him when moved 
 or embarrassed; she indifferently, without a smile 
 or any effort to please, yet looking at him the while 
 with her singular eyes, that gave to her lightest 
 words a secret significance. He was piqued that 
 she seemed not to notice that he made no mention 
 of her absence. She was calling on Mrs. Hazard, 
 she explained, and left him with one of her adorable, 
 sudden smiles. From her presence, from the very 
 rustle of her dress, her charm emanated, and the 
 old, delicious agony took hold of him again. 
 
 188
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 It is his mother, thought Fortunata, his old harri- 
 dan of a mother, who keeps him away from me. 
 Lady Bolton has given her an ill account I am 
 frivolous, flirtatious, extravagant. I drink cham- 
 pagne, I smoke. I have just broken my engage- 
 ment to a dissipated Frenchman, and the name of 
 my love-affairs is legion worst of all, I am a 
 bigoted Catholic (most untrue). Besides, my rela- 
 tives are objectionable; my mother is inadequate, 
 my aunt an evil-tongued beldame, and my poor sis- 
 ter's reputation not of the best. In short, I am not 
 the woman to make Richard happy. Unquestionably 
 this is the state of affairs well, it must be remedied. 
 
 With Fortunata, to think was to act. A few 
 days later at one of Lady Bolton's dinners she set 
 her scheme afloat. She found herself placed next 
 to an Englishman, a man of letters and a great 
 Shakespearian student. With her intrepid courage 
 she plunged into literature. At dessert she heard 
 herself, to her own surprise, gossiping about Peri- 
 cles. One might have thought she was his inti- 
 mate acquaintance. In spite of her fluent elo- 
 quence, she was so appreciative of her neighbor's 
 greater knowledge, so attentive, so anxious to learn, 
 almost pathetic, that even her hostess's basilisk 
 glance was melted when it rested upon her. 
 
 After the men were left alone, Lady Bolton and 
 the Contessina stood together at the farther end of 
 the reception-room, alone, beside the family album. 
 Fortunata opened it at haphazard. A cardboard 
 leaf fell back, disclosing a photograph of Violet and 
 Millicent, smiling inanely at each other across a 
 wicker-chair. 
 
 189
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "How lovely!" she breathed, almost with tender- 
 ness. 
 
 "Isn't it sweet!" said Lady Bolton, in the voice 
 of one who wept. 
 
 "I am very fond of your daughters. I love them 
 dearly, but sometimes I fear they do not care for 
 me." 
 
 "Quite a mistake; on the contrary, I assure 
 you!" 
 
 Fortunata smiled seraphically. "Ah! How hap- 
 py you make me. I have few friends; at least, few 
 of the kind I want. If it would not tire you, I 
 should like to tell you a little of my life." 
 
 "Oh, not at all. Will you have coffee?" 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 When they were seated, Fortunata, aware that 
 her tight princesse and decided decollete were not in 
 unison with the story of misused childhood she 
 was about to weave, set the ever-useful album on 
 one end and hid as much as possible of her person 
 behind it. Thus, with her bare shoulders emerging 
 over the barricade, and the heavenly expression of 
 her upturned eyes, she made an acceptable triplet 
 to the Sistine cherubs. 
 
 "You must know," she began, "that my child- 
 hood was saddened by religious dissensions. You 
 cannot have failed, Lady Bolton, to have heard of 
 the Princess Colibri's cynicism in regard to every 
 subject relating to the Church. My poor mother 
 has long been ill and too enfeebled to give me sup- 
 port; and my father ceased, as a very young man, 
 to be a professing Catholic. Nevertheless, I was 
 baptized into the Church of Rome, and the Marchesa 
 
 190
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Dacampagna undertook my religious instruction. 
 My sister, in spite of great nobility of heart, is, I 
 fear, a fanatic. Yet she was unable to inspire me 
 with her faith. Still, I continued to drift to mass 
 with the servants, now and then. I watched these 
 rites without understanding. How unhappy is a 
 child brought up without having known the peace 
 of religion, and uninstructed in what is, after all, 
 our only consolation! I assure you, Lady Bolton, 
 I have endured some lonely and sorrowful hours." 
 
 Till now Fortunata's narrative was not as false 
 as might be imagined. While speaking, she was 
 aware of a truth of which she had never before been 
 conscious. But as she proceeded she began to 
 embroider. 
 
 "My deepest pain was caused by the fact that in 
 secret I was bound in reality to the Church of my 
 mother yet, in spite of my utter moral starvation, 
 I was at heart, and still am, a Protestant. The other 
 day I heard you address the meeting for the welfare 
 of the Church of England I was there" (will she 
 swallow that? mused Fortunata). "You were elo- 
 quent, Lady Bolton; what you said was true, ter- 
 ribly true. I was greatly moved I wept I was 
 never more touched." 
 
 After that the Ambassadress was wont to say that 
 the little Contessina Rivallo was a sweet girl, and 
 it was sad to see the struggles of a soul virtuous 
 naturally, but morally starved. She even went so 
 far as to tell Lord Trevers that in Fortunata there 
 was much that was commendable. 
 
 The mind has a way of foreseeing and naming a 
 date that shall prove a triumph or a failure. It was 
 
 191
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the night of Lady Bolton's weekly dinner-dance. 
 Fortunata was dressing. To-night is my last chance ! 
 thought she. A panic seized her; her hands trem- 
 bled. That night her partners, for the first time, 
 found her preoccupied, unresponsive. Her smile was 
 borrowed and did not fit her. She kept a wary 
 watch on the clock. The unrelenting hands went 
 round two and three were recklessly told. She 
 thought, He is not coming! and the inanities she 
 was uttering died on her lips. An undisputed and 
 unenviable partner led her out to dance. For the 
 first measures he waltzed unheeded, then he was 
 appeased with the tenderest smile. Fortunata's 
 heart warmed she had seen two reassuring shoul- 
 ders dwarfing all others. She wanted to run across 
 to him, to say, "I knew you would come! I have 
 been willing you to come!" And when his voice 
 asked, "Will you dance with me?" she slipped into 
 his arms as though made for them. Her desire to 
 be loved, she thought, must emanate from her touch, 
 take possession of him, and make him desire her. 
 They passed the conservatory; it was empty; they 
 went in and sat down. 
 
 Fortunata was in white. White is more appeal- 
 ing than any color. The palms and the exotic 
 foliage cast a discreet shadow. Languorously 
 through the leaves the music penetrated, and one 
 forgot that this throbbing, palpitating song was 
 made by brass and strings of catgut. 
 
 "Are you fond of this waltz?" she asked him. 
 
 He answered: "It was our first dance together, 
 do you remember?" 
 
 She said: "I have not forgotten. We shall not 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 meet again for a long time if at all/' she added, 
 after a pause, during which she looked at him 
 intently, as though to impress his face on her 
 memory forever. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, startled. 
 
 "I am leaving Rome." 
 
 "Leaving Rome?" 
 
 "Yes. I am going to Florence. Guido thinks of 
 opening his house. I can help Antonia. Besides, 
 I mean to give up society." 
 
 ' ' But why ? For what reason ?' ' 
 
 "Disillusionment, weariness. As I grow older, 
 the hard work, the futility of it all comes home to 
 me. The Palazzo Colibri is uncongenial. I have 
 nothing in common with any one. I am a stranger 
 there, an alien. The sooner I am gone the better. 
 I am tired too tired to keep up any longer." 
 
 In the dim light she was as appealing as a child, 
 as pale and shadowy as a phantom. 
 
 A tenderness so acute as to be almost suffering 
 transfixed Richard. 
 
 " I shall not see you for a long time for months, 
 perhaps?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I shall not see you why, that means that I 
 can't speak with you, or bow to you even! You 
 mustn't go, you sha'n't go! Forgive me, of course 
 you are the one to decide it is none of my busi- 
 ness. I don't want to interfere!" 
 
 How cautious he is ! thought Fortunata. 
 
 "You are a kind, a devoted friend," she mur- 
 mured, grateful and in thankfulness, no doubt 
 she gave him her hand. 
 *3 193
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "A friend? Oh, Fortunata, if you only knew! I 
 can't let you go, because I love you! There, I've 
 said it I knew I would. Be my wife. Promise 
 you will marry me! Promise!" 
 
 "I cannot!" 
 
 "I won't believe that you don't care for me. It 
 isn't possible that I can love you as I do, and you 
 feel nothing." 
 
 "There are many reasons " 
 
 "Give me one!" 
 
 "I could give you twenty. The difference in our 
 religions." 
 
 "What of that?" 
 
 "Your mother's prejudice against foreigners." 
 
 "Ah, Fortunata, when she sees you, when she 
 sees how good you are how beautiful she can't 
 help but love you more even than your own mother." 
 
 "I must not " from Fortunata, in a hesitating 
 voice. "It is impossible, impossible!" 
 
 "Nothing is impossible! You shall marry me! 
 You are as necessary to me as breath or food. It 
 is only a question of time." 
 
 She raised her eyes and looked at him, smiling 
 tenderly. 
 
 "Since it is inevitable, Lord Trevers Richard 
 Dick then '!
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 NEXT morning, very early it seemed to Fortu- 
 nata, Lord Trevers's card was brought up to her. 
 
 "We must tell the Princess," said she, and taking 
 Richard by the hand, she led him to her aunt. 
 
 The Colibri was in the morning-room drinking 
 curacoa and smoking her cigarette. In the full 
 sunlight her face seemed yellow and soft, as though 
 about to melt like a wax mask. She wore a cap 
 drawn down to her ears and crowned by a wreath 
 of artificial flowers gone to seed. At her side, 
 chained by the leg to his perch, Coco sang his 
 ribald songs and laughed his loud, insane laugh. 
 
 Lord Trevers, looking very pale, bowed to her 
 Excellency. 
 
 "I have promised to marry Richard," said Fort- 
 unata. "I'm so happy!" 
 
 "Ah! Carissima!" cried the Colibri, in a qua- 
 vering voice, and assuming the manner of a kind 
 old guardian on the stage, "This is a happy mo- 
 ment! Sit down, children. Sit down. Ah, youth! 
 Ah, happiness!" 
 
 Lord Trevers offered Fortunata a chair and took 
 one himself, his serious eyes fixed on the Prin- 
 cess. 
 
 "Who can doubt Providence?" continued her Ex- 
 cellency. " Who can doubt there is a power, shel- 
 ls
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 tering, directing al diavolo, quell' uccello! devil 
 take that bird!" 
 
 "He's so noisy," admitted Fortunata. 
 
 "Fortunata goes out one morning, turns a certain 
 corner, happens to meet you, Lord Trevers. From 
 that moment you are drawn to each other. Now, 
 had Fortunata decided not to buy a certain green 
 hat" 
 
 "A blue hat, Princess," corrected Richard. 
 
 "Quite so, a blue- hat, Lord Trevers; you see, an 
 incident, a mere nothing can change a life, so the 
 fate of a woman can hang on a little green hat." 
 
 "It was blue," said Lord Trevers, "and it was 
 rather large." 
 
 "Forgive me! A blue hat. Ah, here comes the 
 Marchesa." 
 
 "Antonia," said Fortunata, "I am very happy; 
 kiss me." 
 
 The Marchesa looked at her sister, her great moist 
 eyes blazing with tenderness. She kissed Fortu- 
 nata on the forehead, and held out both hands to 
 Lord Trevers, who bowed sternly, as might the prophet 
 Saint John to the Scarlet Woman of the Apocalypse. 
 
 "Ah, Fortunata!" cried the Princess, who had 
 forgotten the r61e of kind old guardian, "what 
 cold-storage manners the English have! Is it any 
 wonder they can stand the Indian climate and the 
 tropics?" 
 
 "Lord Trevers," said Antonia, in her careful 
 English, and warm, vibrant voice, "I wish you may 
 find in your marriage all the happiness that makes 
 the relationship of man and wife the most beautiful 
 thing on earth." 
 
 196
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "In marriage, Antonia, we are no better than 
 animals," cried the Colibri, throwing away her 
 cigarette; "but in love we are far better. No one 
 knows better than you, Antonia, that from a lover, 
 at least, you meet with consideration, with grati- 
 tude" 
 
 "Richard," cried Fortunata, "see what a funny 
 face Coco is making ! I want to tell you something ! 
 Come along!" She bustled about and managed to 
 rout him out of the room. 
 
 Fortunately, he had caught little of the conversa- 
 tion. He knew scarcely any Italian. He could never 
 think of two things at once, and had been con- 
 scientiously intent on making his bow to the la- 
 dies. 
 
 The world heard; the world was astonished and 
 surer than ever that Lord Trevers was brave, but 
 not intelligent. On the Princess's reception-day her 
 Excellency held forth on Fortunata' s prospects. The 
 Colibri was in transports, while Fortunata, looking 
 in her tea-gown like a child in disguise, sat modestly 
 at her aunt's side. 
 
 From the hall voices approached, the tread of feet, 
 the whisper of silk. 
 
 The hubbub grew. The door flew open, and in 
 strode Miss Case with a dozen men. Her crepe-de- 
 chine dress clung to her as though she were risen 
 from the sea. She passed through the room, shout- 
 ing greetings, nicknames, personal remarks, nodding 
 her plumed hat. 
 
 Fortunata, at the tea-table, sprang up to welcome 
 her. The girls met in each other's arms. "Dear- 
 est Fortunata !" " Dear Pearl !' ' They drew off, cov- 
 
 197
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ertly watchful, each summing up the other's state of 
 looks, dislike in both hearts and disquietude. 
 
 "Am I to congratulate you?" 
 
 "Dearest Pearl, it depends on what." 
 
 "Then, it isn't true?" 
 
 "What isn't true?" 
 
 "I said I didn't believe it." 
 
 "You mystify me." 
 
 "I always knew you wouldn't have Dick Trevers." 
 
 "Ah, you are so intuitive, sometimes." 
 
 "Well, he isn't your kind." Miss Case's face had 
 smoothed out like linen under a hot iron. "I heard, 
 but gossip is so silly." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? Lord Trevers and I are good 
 friends." 
 
 "Exactly what I said." 
 
 "And I have promised to marry him." 
 
 "Ah!" It was a knock-down blow, but Pearl 
 did not flinch. "Ah, well," she said, with patron- 
 age, "we'll hope that it will turn out all right." 
 
 "Thank you. It's worth the risk." 
 
 They dropped hands, but continued to smile into 
 each other's eyes. 
 
 Really, it was not much more amusing being 
 engaged to this Englishman than to poor old Ra- 
 oul. Fortunata found that she had grown quite 
 attached to the Prince, after a filial fashion. She 
 often caught herself wondering had he left Rome? 
 Would she ever see him again? She missed his 
 gnome-like little face. Still, on the whole, she was 
 much better off. Now she had a fiance to be proud 
 of young, attractive, very handsome. But, heav- 
 ens, isn't he stupid! was Fortunata's secret thought. 
 
 198
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The Princess invariably referred to him as "the 
 corpse" or "the body." He was a persevering 
 lover; came early; stayed late, and, like all true 
 lovers, appeared imbecile. With the Prince, how- 
 ever tiresome his protestations, Fortunata had been 
 at least spared all importunate caresses. He had 
 approached her as an idol, and never dared to touch 
 her hand without bows and grimaces and excuses. 
 Dick did not conceal his feelings. His kisses, al- 
 though he never guessed it, meant nothing to Fort- 
 unata. She knew nothing of the thrilling ecstasy 
 of nearness, and could find no pleasure in having 
 him for hours at her side, voiceless with love, her 
 hands in his. 
 
 He told her of his family and home, the details 
 of a prosaic life. In fancy she saw the well-kept 
 house, the well-fed horses and servants. Method, 
 comfort, respectability. Great observance to cus- 
 tom, to prejudice. Humdrum gentry coming to call. 
 Long roads leading to dull visits, to dull garden- 
 parties, to dull tennis tournaments. The tolling of 
 the bell for some poor old body in the workhouse 
 causing a sensation. Now that she was bound over 
 to this life, it did not seem to be as full of promise as 
 while she had been still fighting to be Lady Trevers. 
 
 "When we are married," he said to her one day, 
 "I'm going to take you home. I want my people 
 to see you." 
 
 "Oh, I sha'n't be happy, Dick, till I meet your 
 mother and your dear sisters!" 
 
 "I have other relatives, too," he said. And he 
 added, with perhaps a touch of regret, "I've some- 
 times thought I'd like to take you off where I could 
 
 199
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 have you all to myself, all the time, dearest. The 
 others will be wanting you to help. Mother has 
 got lots of work with her charities, her Bible classes 
 and things. She keeps the village together; there's 
 no one like her. She has a tree every Christmas in 
 the ball-room " 
 
 "The ball-room!" cried Fortunata, brightening. 
 "Do you give balls?" 
 
 "We did when the girls came out." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Oh, I tell you the mater does a lot of good," he 
 continued, "and my sisters help her. They are 
 jolly girls; they'll like you. I've written that 
 you're like an English girl." 
 
 "That, of course," said Fortunata, "is what I 
 want to be." In imagination she saw herself claim- 
 ing kin with countless Britishers, just like Richard, 
 only women. 
 
 A French saying there is, that the woman who is 
 all in all to a man is never she who really loves him. 
 She may be his through caprice, or self - interest, 
 or a momentary impulse never can he keep, often 
 never has he had, her heart. If, then, a man were 
 ever laying up for himself a future of self-deception, 
 of disappointment, of heartbreak, it was Dick 
 Trevers, who loved Fortunata profoundly. This 
 commonplace youth was transformed; his dulness 
 and muteness began to fall from him. He used his 
 words better; his vocabulary grew. His passion to 
 him was a miracle. He expressed himself not un- 
 quaintly. 
 
 Lord Trevers's visits were from dusk to late hours, 
 and Fortunata found the evenings long, very long. 
 
 200
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 At times she pleaded fatigue, and would not leave 
 her room. Every seven days she was taken with a 
 violent headache, and the time between was inter- 
 spersed with chills, ague fits, and touches of fever. 
 
 "Look out," the Colibri warned her, "the first 
 thing you know Richard Trevers will break off the 
 engagement! These Englishmen are hipped on the 
 subject of healthy wives." 
 
 Fortunata would have found the time passed with 
 her fiance less unendurable had it not been for his 
 everlasting talk about his mother. 
 
 "My dear mother!" said Dick, tenderly, as he 
 handed Fortunata the photograph of a fierce old 
 lady, with a very short bang and a very long face. 
 
 From Dick's unconscious revelations she concluded 
 that Lady Trevers had many prejudices and very 
 bad manners. The Signorina Rivallo sent her future 
 mother-in-law a very flattering note, and, without 
 being too obsequious, hinted at a knowledge of her 
 own unworthiness. In answer she received a very 
 dismal letter. Lady Trevers wrote that she was long 
 acquainted with the fact that a man must leave 
 his mother and cleave unto his wife, and then fol- 
 lowed two sentences more of an equally Christian 
 and prosaic nature. 
 
 Fortunata had brought about, had accomplished, 
 what she had long desired. Richard had no other 
 thought than her, yet she was not particularly 
 happy. On two stiff chairs they sat out the even- 
 ings, while at the room's far end a dim figure, some 
 member of the family, kept watch in the cautious 
 Italian fashion. Either the Princess Colibri held a 
 jeering eye on the lovers, or the discreet Antonia 
 
 201
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 turned away her head. As night came down the 
 candles could not dissipate the gloom. No one saw 
 if Dick's arm was around Fortunata's shoulders. 
 
 "Ah, if we could stay this way for centuries!" 
 Richard whispered, breathing into her pompadour. 
 
 At the mere thought of such a prolonged visit, 
 she had a crick in her back.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HOWEVER brilliant Fortunata's engagement from 
 a pecuniary and social standpoint, Rome received 
 the news without enthusiasm. The English, though 
 fashionable in Italy, are not popular. 
 
 Fortunata found herself out of favor at home, and 
 very much in debt in the city. She got black looks 
 from Guido. One day after dinner he followed her 
 up the steps, growling like a dog. He overtook her 
 on the landing. 
 
 "All the English are pigs," he said. "Why do 
 you marry one ? San sacramento !" he swore, grasp- 
 ing her by the arm, "I'd like to wring your neck!" 
 
 She was frightened, and crouched like any street 
 urchin, her arm across her face. 
 
 He thought better of it, and merely gave her 
 wrist a wrench. Such incidents were of daily oc- 
 currence. Life in the Palazzo was becoming im- 
 possible. Guido was hardly ever sober, and as 
 brutal as a peasant. One night, coming home after 
 some carousal, he struck his wife, who, dishevelled 
 and half - dressed, rushed to Luigi for protection. 
 She tore into his room, pale as the dead, with her 
 hair on end and a face like Medusa. The men 
 came to blows. They could be heard all over the 
 house, cursing and shrieking. 
 
 Fortunata, Eugenio, Francesca, the Contessa, with 
 203
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 a hot-water bag in her hand, the Princess mys- 
 terious and awful in night-robes, came from their 
 rooms fearful of fire and calamity, while the ser- 
 vants, with candles, ran about distracted. Hardly 
 a night passed without some such disturbance, turn- 
 ing this house of the aristocracy into a tenement 
 made hideous by brawls. 
 
 Luigi, since his rebuff, had assumed for Fortunata 
 a manner of overdone gallantry, a tone of playful 
 irony, that somehow made her ill at ease. His love 
 affair with Antonia, a sort of sentimental tantrum 
 one might have called it, was still in full swing. 
 Luigi began to absent himself often and for long 
 intervals. Antonia took to moping in her room. 
 She hardly slept, and ate even less, and, as ever, 
 the singular creature was sincere. 
 
 The Princess was in her element. She revelled in 
 ill-feeling. She put every one at loggerheads. She 
 encouraged Eugenio to spend his time and his 
 money and his hope on La Valliere. 
 
 "Per Dio! one must see the world; one must 
 know women!" She jeered at Fortunata that the 
 day of her nuptials was not yet definitely decided. 
 "It's always the bird of paradise that never finds 
 a mate." She kept Billford so flustered that the 
 poor old soul was ready to turn a handspring, and 
 Francesca went about half the time with eyes that 
 were red from weeping. The Princess found for 
 the Contessa a new disease, and old Nello walked 
 backward before her Excellency. 
 
 In such surroundings it was in vain for Fortunata 
 to keep up a semblance of respectability. Burdened 
 by debts, badgered by Guido, harassed by Ltiigi, 
 
 204
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 teased by the Princess, forced unwillingly to be 
 Antonia's confidante, she longed for the morning 
 that was to make her free forever. But as yet 
 nothing was decided, no date named, no arrange- 
 ments made. 
 
 The Princess had generously allowed her favorite 
 a certain small reception-hall off the sola, wherein 
 Fortunata might entertain her own visitors. Lord 
 Trevers's pride, the pride of the gentleman and of 
 the Englishman, was chafed to see his future wife, 
 day after day, the centre of a group of familiar young 
 men whose glances spoke no very respectful ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Fortunata, always awake to the main chance, 
 was alarmed. 
 
 If things go on like this, she thought, I can't 
 hope to succeed. 
 
 Trevers, fierce as a Saracen to his rivals, was al- 
 ways at her side, and her acquaintances fell from 
 her, chilled by his arctic manner. Her men friends 
 faded out of her life, became mere phantoms, pleas- 
 ant, frivolous ghosts, which at heart she regretted. 
 
 Life at the Palazzo Colibri could not fail to dis- 
 gust Lord Trevers, true Britisher and lover of the 
 conventional. To be sure, the English nobility is 
 not over-scrupulous. Bills go long unpaid in Eng- 
 land, but the fashion of dunning is more elegant 
 than that employed in Italy the best people owe, 
 but they owe without shame or squalor. Here in 
 Rome was a family living by its wits, spending other 
 people's money, denying their doors to creditors, 
 disclaiming bills, clamored at by tradespeople, and 
 gaining the day's dinner by cheating. One would 
 
 205
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 scarcely choose a wife out of a gaming-hell, yet play 
 ran very high in the Princess's boudoir. At two in 
 the morning baccarat was in full swing. The cards 
 were shuffled and dealt in the unearthly dawn. 
 Strangers and Americans played with her Excellency, 
 nor did they play often, for she had too consistent 
 luck. The Princess Colibri had promised Fortunata 
 her help, but the old buffoon, when talking with 
 Richard, could not forbear jibes at the English, whom 
 she cordially disliked. 
 
 "What a silly idea that is," she once said, "that 
 because one comes from England, one must have 
 prominent teeth. I remember, we once had an 
 English consul who had none at all " or, "I have 
 always contradicted, Lord Trevers, the rumor that 
 your Queen drank." 
 
 A few days later Fortunata threw open her aunt's 
 door. "It is settled for the third, Zia!" she cried, 
 with the look of one who has just won a race; and 
 she added, fervently, "Praise be to the Madonna!" 
 
 Her future was assured. Effort, anxiety, were 
 over and done with, yet she was hardly happier. 
 She feared this new life; she clung to the old. The 
 days slipped past evaded her, as it were. The sun 
 went down on the last evening of her girlhood, and 
 as sleep overtook her she yielded with terror, for 
 all the sooner must come the ominous to-morrow. 
 
 Next morning the sun was well up when Fortunata, 
 lying in her bed, supine and straight as an arrow, 
 suddenly opened her eyes wide. 
 
 This is my wedding-day, thought she, and a 
 limitless sadness swept over her. Poor child, whose 
 nature was to pursue with inexhaustible ardor her 
 
 206
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 aims, which, when attained, she invariably found 
 to be irksome, worthless. She was panic-stricken 
 now to find herself all but married to a man for 
 whom she felt not the least inclination, not the 
 faintest tremor of love, and whose caresses, were 
 the truth known, inspired her almost with aversion. 
 She lay prone, passionately regretting the subter- 
 fuges, the artifices, the clever way by which she had 
 brought about this long-aimed-at state of things. 
 Her old friends, the gargoyles, looked down on her, 
 she thought, with melancholy uncouth, faithful 
 little monsters, under whose familiar care she would 
 likely enough never sleep again. It was brutally 
 plain that the dreams in which she had known her- 
 self radiant, trembling with love on going to the 
 arms of her bridegroom, must be resigned forever. 
 
 "As a joyous waking to the bridal morning," 
 mused Fortunata, gloomily, "I don't think much 
 of this." And she put her long, narrow white feet 
 out of bed. 
 
 The rest of the day was a dream jumbled, 
 chaotic, weighted with foreboding. 
 
 She was aware of Antonia, vibrant with sympathy, 
 smoothing the folds of the bridal veil, while out of 
 the glass her own face looked at her, very pale, very 
 small, like that of a little phantom. She came down 
 the stairs, and her dress whispered round her feet. 
 Some people below looked at her and said "Ah!" 
 Next, the English Embassy, the giant footman 
 throwing open the door, and there she stood with 
 Richard in the centre of the room, and the acute 
 odor of the lilies took her at the throat. Richard 
 put a ring on her finger ; his big, cool hand held hers. 
 
 207
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Next, he was with her alone in a carriage. He was 
 telling her for the hundredth time his disappoint- 
 ment that his mother, the fondest, the most devoted 
 of parents, could not bring herself to leave England, 
 even for his marriage. She said, "It is too bad!" 
 And she saw a scar on his forehead that she had 
 never seen before. 
 
 Then, tedious complications going before caged 
 men, signing one's name; then back again to what 
 used to be home. Hundreds of people came up to 
 her holding out their hands. She shook these hands. 
 The new ring cut into her fingers. Then the shad- 
 ows began to eat why, she could not imagine. Sub- 
 consciously, she went to her room like a sleep- 
 walker, and made ready for departure, assisted by 
 Hortense. Hortense was in tears. Hymen made 
 her cry. It was a habit. 
 
 Without a word Fortunata slipped into a travel- 
 ling-dress whose modest sleeves ended in points on 
 the backs of her hands. Before the glass she pinned 
 on her toque; from the mirror her eyes looked back 
 at her as at a stranger gravely, almost with re- 
 proach. She sent the maid with the valise from the 
 room. The genial sun shone in. Kind old chairs! 
 Sheltering bed! 
 
 Good-bye never again are awful words. It 
 hurt her to close the door. It went to her heart to 
 turn the knob and shut out her gay, ambitious, un- 
 scrupulous girlhood. 
 
 "Viva la Principessa! Viva la Colibri! Viva la 
 Fortunata!" 
 
 The hall, damp as the catacombs, swarmed with 
 guests, drinking and disporting, while the carriage 
 
 208
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 that was to take Lord and Lady Trevers away stood 
 blistering in the sun. 
 
 Fortunata came down the stairs swiftly, wrapped 
 in a discreet cloak. She looked gentle and good, 
 long and narrow, like a Fra Angelico angel. Around 
 her toque her nebulous hair made a halo. Eugenic, 
 sentimental with drinking his sister's health, met 
 her at the foot of the stairs, took both her hands, 
 kissed one and then the other, exclaiming, in Italian, 
 "I wish you every happiness, most sympathetic of 
 sisters!" Then countless good-byes Guido and 
 Luigi, de Brillac and Marcel partners, suitors, 
 flames of a month ago, last season's admirers. To 
 Fortunata' s surprise, not to say disappointment, 
 they all bore up bravely. For a minute she stood 
 scanning these faces, meeting here and there eyes 
 that had once held her the rarest thing on earth. To 
 leave no regrets stabbed her. She made her way to 
 the Princess Colibri, kissed her aunt's hand, and 
 bending down her cloud of indefinite brown hair, 
 murmured something ending in gratitude. Her 
 Excellency's answer was prodigiously amusing, to 
 judge from the laughter it evoked. Fortunata had, 
 however, already turned away. Antonia, always 
 capable of emotion, clasped her sister in her arms, 
 kissed her fervently on the brow rekissed her, to 
 the disarrangement of the toque and to Fortunata' s 
 secret annoyance. As for Fortunata's mother, she 
 laid her face on her daughter's shoulder and rolled 
 her head feebly from side to side. She seemed about 
 to perish with grief for the loss of this child, whom she 
 had never known, whom she had never watched over 
 for the loss of this acquaintance, this fellow-lodger. 
 14 209
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The ladies nearby had tears in their eyes the 
 dowagers and mothers and marriageable daughters 
 who had backbitten and slyly abused Fortunata 
 for the last four years. Tears are cheap in Italy. 
 Nello wept. The majordomo wept. Miss Bill- 
 ford wept. And all the while Francesca waved a 
 handkerchief and piped, "Be happy! Be very, very 
 happy!" 
 
 Richard, with the aspect of a pall-bearer officiat- 
 ing at the hearse, helped his wife into the carriage. 
 His expression would have depressed a less self- 
 appreciative bride. Decorous in sorrow, he sat 
 down by her side and closed the door. 
 
 ' ' Viva ! Viva la Fortunata !' ' 
 
 A storm of rice struck the window, a black blotch 
 like a bat eddied over the carriage the legendary 
 shoe cast by Miss Billford, who, in the emotions of 
 the day, forgot for once her deep-rooted antipathy 
 to superstition. The coachman cracked his whip, 
 and they were on their way! Dick kept repeating, 
 "One hat box, two valises, and three trunks," star- 
 ing at Fortunata as though he would eat her up.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 HPHE train ran a frantic course along the west- 
 1 ern shore of Italy, through fertile fields, past 
 hills veiled in mist. They had a compartment to 
 themselves. 
 
 He said: " Our life is beginning. Are you happy ?" 
 
 She said: "Oh, yes! Of course, very." 
 
 "You are my wife, my own; you belong to me; 
 you are mine!" 
 
 His voice was altered. 
 
 The breathless train soothed down a little. 
 
 "Don't, Dick, don't!" 
 
 "I must kiss you!" 
 
 "We are slowing up." 
 
 "God! How I love you!" 
 
 "We are stopping!" 
 
 "You're so pretty!" 
 
 "That fat person will see you, Richard!" 
 
 And sure enough, a stout bourgeoise laden with 
 packages was striving to climb into the compart- 
 ment. She would have stuck in the door forever, 
 and Dick must needs pull her through. He took 
 her bundles from her with the ferocity of a robber, 
 and aimed them desperately at the valise-rack, 
 then hoisted in the lady herself, a comfortable 
 omnipresence. She filled the seat opposite, and, 
 planted there, jolted all the way to Pisa. 
 
 211
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Sincerely Fortunata blessed her! 
 
 Lord and Lady Trevers, with a maid, a valet, and 
 a mountain of luggage, stopped at the Hotel Superba, 
 Pisa. 
 
 The mere aspect of the room filled Fortunata 
 with foreboding. In the centre of the high and 
 dirty ceiling, an ornate, much-bebranched gas- 
 fixture threw an ungracious light that beat down on 
 the expanse of bed, a starchy bed, whose twin pil- 
 lows brutally declared it for two. To the windows 
 there were no curtains, only inside shutters with 
 melancholy ribs. The inhospitable fireplace was 
 closed up with boards. Over the mantel hung a 
 chromo of a lady letting down her back hair. 
 
 Hortense placed the bridal bouquet in the water- 
 pitcher's gaping mouth. The maid's aspect was 
 portentous, and her gestures awesome. She gained 
 on her mistress's nerves, and Fortunata dismissed 
 for the night the faithful servant. The Contessina 
 passed into the next room a bare parlor, redolent 
 of plaster and matting. Richard came in, pushing 
 the door to with his arm. There was about him a 
 suppressed elation. 
 
 "Let me help you off with your jacket." 
 
 "Thank you," she said, in a meek voice, like that 
 of a little girl. The maitre d'hotel followed, bearing 
 in the supper. He laid the cloth and placed the 
 dishes. The chairs were drawn confidently on 
 either side of the little table. 
 
 "Some cold chicken, Fortunata?" asked Richard. 
 
 Fortunata seemed heart and soul with the man- 
 agement of the hotel. She questioned the waiter as 
 to the number of guests were there any Italians? 
 
 213
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 As to the ornament on the table, a china porcupine 
 whose quills served as toothpicks, her curiosity was 
 unappeasable. 
 
 Lord Trevers's sombre face drove the waiter away. 
 Fortunata saw with regret the retreating coat-tails. 
 The door shut. The table seemed very narrow; 
 their knees touched. The salad stuck in her throat, 
 and the dry lady-fingers choked her. She grew 
 sadder and sadder, less and less brave. 
 
 The waiter was back; he cleared off the table 
 and was gone again. 
 
 Dick came to his wife and put his arms around 
 her. "My darling, you are not going to sit all 
 evening in that hat and boa?" 
 
 "Oh, no, of course not " resolutely. "I shall 
 take it off." And she took off the hat. 
 
 "That high collar must choke you." 
 
 "I shall take that off, too," said Fortunata, in the 
 reckless voice with which one might cry, "Here goes; 
 I have no modesty left!" and she took off the collar. 
 Under the pretence of laying it down, she made the 
 circuit of the room, Dick following in her steps. 
 She sat down gingerly on the edge of an arm-chair. 
 She hung her head, to account for which she twiddled 
 with her shoe-laces. 
 
 Dick knelt at her feet and unlaced her boots. "I 
 love to do these little things for you," he said. The 
 harsh light showed her a new face. She found that 
 she had never seen him before. How strange, 
 thought she, here am I, the Fortunata I have known 
 for twenty- two years, here at Pisa, in the night, with 
 this fair-haired man. 
 
 He felt her gaze, looked up, and bent across her to 
 213
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 kiss her. His fingers grasped her shoulders, passed 
 down her arms and pressed her hands, as they lay 
 palms upward on the seat of the chair, pressed them 
 into the yielding velvet, down, down! His lips 
 seized hers. She closed her eyes to shut out the 
 stranger's face.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHY, it's raining!" Lord Trevers said to the 
 groom at Russelford Station. Raining was 
 an inadequate word the sluices of heaven were 
 open. 
 
 "Wery bad weather, as we've been 'aving, lately, 
 my Lord. Wery poor weather for your Lordship's 
 lady to see the country. Never see'd nothing like 
 it myself." 
 
 Hortense, regretful, drooped amid the luggage. 
 She had not straightened her hat since crossing to 
 Dover. 
 
 Fortunata was exhilarated by the good smell of 
 earth, by the mystery of the rain, by the dim trees 
 and their nebulous branches. She had come into 
 her kingdom. Thoughtfully, under the hood of her 
 coat, she looked out. In getting into the brougham, 
 she made an inventory. Money and comfort, but 
 a lack of elegance, thought the future owner. She 
 thrust her pretty head out of the window. The 
 rain beat her face. She felt her hair come out of 
 curl, and did not care. Hospitable England, that 
 no moist nor fog can render melancholy! Groomed 
 fields, if one may use the word; comfortable cows; 
 sleek beasts; sheltered homes whose thatched roofs 
 settle on their four walls, it seems, with a blessing. 
 Fortunata remembered that, as a child, when traips- 
 
 215
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ing about with her disreputable father, she had even 
 then felt the peace and well-being of this country. 
 
 The rain ceased; the mist lifted; the sun showed 
 his face. "That's Goody Bridgeman," said Dick, 
 nodding, and Fortunata smiled on an old woman 
 who was feeding her pig beside a stile. The bucolic 
 English have a native refinement. The owner of 
 the pig, the pig himself, had an air of race. 
 
 "By George, Fortunata, I first learned to vault 
 with a pole over this stile. See that wooded ridge ? 
 it's the best hunt for foxes in Wiltshire. By the way, 
 Pennam, I see that Meeker has filled up the ditch 
 where the chestnut mare sprained her foreleg. How 
 is her leg, and how's Lightning after the spavin, 
 and how's my mother ?" 
 
 As the brougham passed, all the he and she farmers, 
 as in an English novel, curtsied and bowed. It is 
 agreeable to be curtsied and bobbed to. The vil- 
 lage and the belfry church, the lodge gates on their 
 stone columns, the majestic park, the Elizabethan 
 mansion, formal, gabled, built of stone they may 
 be read of in Jane Austen and George Eliot. As the 
 beech avenue thickened and closed in, Richard be- 
 gan at his eternal, "Mother likes this," and "Mother 
 likes that." He was evidently nervous. But For- 
 tunata' s courage rose with danger. She steeled her- 
 self for the encounter, although outwardly making 
 herself very small, assuming a gentle and sedate 
 expression. 
 
 Four gaudy peacocks swaggered on the lawn and 
 swelled their brazen chests. Self-assurance is the 
 essential, thought Fortunata, watching. Her or- 
 deal was passed. She had found the Dowager Lady 
 
 216
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Trevers a grenadier of a woman, cumbrously built 
 and long of tooth, a shade sterner and more terrible 
 than even Lady Bolton. Where the English Am- 
 bassadress was without hope, her sister could burn 
 with righteous indignation. One was fat and lym- 
 phatic, in grief for the world; the other emaciated 
 and austere, with strenuous Christian effort. For- 
 tunata, accustomed to the tumultuous Italian greet- 
 ings, to the kisses on both cheeks, to the ebullitions 
 of the South, was not a little discomfited when her 
 mother-in-law merely gave her a hand as unre- 
 sponsive as a dead fish, and said, with decent gloom: 
 ''The wife of my Richard is, of course, welcome, 
 Fortune ahem Fortunia." 
 
 " nata, mother dear," from the Ladies Gwendo- 
 lyn and Amelia. They were the counterparts of 
 the Misses Bolton, the same genial, kindly creatures, 
 and they greeted Fortunata cordially. She endured 
 a strenuous handshaking, for they were muscular 
 young ladies. 
 
 They must needs drag her over the house and 
 show her the room where Dick was born; the win- 
 dow he jumped from to win a wager; the roof he 
 had walked on in his sleep to all of which Fortunata 
 answered: "Yes, Gwendolyn, darling," and "Yes, 
 Amelia, dear," while sizing up her sisters-in-law and 
 planning her future campaign. 
 
 She found in her room what she guessed to be a 
 bathtub, shallow as a saucer and full of humps. 
 Its strange proportions made her feel even more of 
 an alien to England. 
 
 I must be very simple, mused Fortunata, dressing 
 for dinner, childlike and confiding. Accordingly, 
 
 217
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 she modified her pompadour, took off her puffs and 
 earrings, removed all traces of powder, and encased 
 .her throat in a dog-collar still she was suggestively 
 feminine. 
 
 As she went down to dinner, leaning on her hus- 
 band's arm, she appraised the furniture with her 
 keen, dark eyes. Her mother-in-law received her 
 in the library, a wainscoted room, conventional and 
 luxurious. The Dowager stood in the firelight, her 
 head erect, as gaunt and weather-beaten as a Viking. 
 In the farther corner the Ladies Gwendolyn and 
 Amelia were playing at tiddle-de-winks, their big, 
 pleasant faces blooming out of their muslin frocks. 
 
 Dinner was announced, and proved to Fortunata 
 impossibly dull. The food was good, the room 
 handsome, the plate sumptuous, yet she thought 
 with regret of the scrappy meals of the Palazzo 
 Colibri. Dick talked of the crops, a never-ending 
 theme. He discussed the cattle and their ailments 
 in a way that Fortunata considered disgusting. 
 Catching sight of him through the ferns of the 
 centre-piece, of his high-poised, self-sufficient head, 
 she concluded that she did not like him no, not in 
 the least! 
 
 "Richard," said the Dowager, decapitating a trout 
 with the look of an executioner, "I am under the care 
 of an excellent physician, Doctor Powell. His work 
 is kept up entirely by correspondence." 
 
 "Oh, mater, these quacks get such a hold on you." 
 
 "You interrupt me, my son. He is a man of 
 parts. His elixir for rheumatism, his sunbeams for 
 headache are remarkable homoeopathic remedies." 
 
 "No more headaches? Oh, wonders of science!" 
 218
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 warbled Fortunata, clasping her hands and looking 
 up with all the warmth of Southern enthusiasm. 
 "Will you give me Doctor Powell's address, Lady 
 Trevers?" 
 
 "Most certainly, Fortune ahem Fortunia." 
 
 After dinner, while the ladies were drinking coffee 
 around the library fire, and Lord Trevers was left 
 to his solitary port : "I hear that you smoke, like 
 all foreign women," observed the Dowager, with 
 that aggressive voice the English sometimes affect 
 even on their own hearth. 
 
 "I did, but Richard disapproves, and Richard's 
 wishes, Lady Trevers, are law to me." 
 
 "Most Italians dress in poor style," said the 
 Dowager, "but you have a sweetly pretty frock." 
 
 "If you like it, I am glad," Fortunata answered, 
 with one of her irresistible smiles, and from this 
 moment the Dowager thawed. 
 
 "Let's have some music," said Dick, lounging in, 
 and as at the voice of the Pasha, his sisters flew to 
 the piano. 
 
 "What shall we play, Dickie?" cried they. 
 
 "Oh, something jolly," said Dick. 
 
 "Play 'Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming,'" 
 the Dowager commanded, closing her eyes pre- 
 paratory to being entranced. 
 
 Fortunata was amazed to see the fierce old head 
 rock to and fro in enjoyment of music so maudlin. 
 
 "Fortunata can play; and she can sing, too," 
 Dick declared. 
 
 "Oh, Richard!" cried Fortunata. 
 
 "Pray sing, Fortuniria," the Dowager was kind 
 enough to say. 
 
 219
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Pray do!" clamored the girls. 
 
 So Fortunata went to the piano and played those 
 sweet, simple songs that charmed our grandmothers 
 and still, at times, charm us "The Last Rose of 
 Summer," "Believe Me If All Those Endearing 
 Young Charms," "Oh, My Darling." As she sang, 
 her profile assumed the delicacy and purity of a 
 child's. The Dowager was moved, the girls ec- 
 static, Dick very proud. 
 
 In her room that night Fortunata threw open the 
 window. The rain still fell incessantly, drenching 
 the great trees of the park. 
 
 Thousands of acres, she thought, and they all be- 
 long to me.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 FORTUNATA, contemplating her mother-in-law 
 next morning at breakfast, concluded that 
 she had never seen any one at all resemble her. 
 The Dowager did not look like a woman nor a man 
 she was merely a British matron. The Dowager's 
 reign was over, and she needs must abdicate in favor 
 of her daughter-in-law. Caroline Trevers was a very 
 Christian woman ; her co-dwellers were but too well 
 acquainted with the fact. Now, when supplanted, 
 her humility was truly awful. 
 
 Arrayed in a camel' s-hair wrapper, she waylaid 
 Fortunata in the hall, and offered to give up the 
 keys of the pantry, with an aspect more forlorn 
 than that of the famous burgesses of Ghent, who 
 came in their night-shirts to surrender the citadel. 
 In vain did Fortunata waive all rights; the Dow- 
 ager would not lay claim even to the mattress on 
 which she had slept for forty years. So humble was 
 she grown that she dare not decide questions the 
 most trivial without Fortunata' s permission. The 
 daughter-in-law must point out the exact spot on 
 the table-cloth where the decanter of claret should 
 stand. 
 
 "Don't come to me, John, for your orders," the 
 Dowager would say to the footman. "Go to her 
 ladyship"; and a huge person in canary - colored 
 
 221
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 smalls would stalk across to Fortunata, not a little 
 to her anxiety. 
 
 "Which is your favorite a brown betty or a 
 batter pudding?" the Dowager would ask, in tones 
 more dreadful than Lady Macbeth' s. 
 
 "Why, really, I don't "know; I like them both." 
 
 "That is no answer." 
 
 "Well, then, a brown betty," ventured Fortu- 
 nata, at random. The name sounded gypsy-like 
 and gay. 
 
 "It is a question of taste," acquiesced the Dow- 
 ager, but in such a funereal voice, and with an ex- 
 pression so despairing, that Fortunata wished she 
 had chosen the batter pudding. 
 
 Fortunata was indefatigable in her efforts to 
 please. The chirpings began at eight o'clock in 
 the morning to her an ungodly hour. To rise 
 early made her feel ill invariably. Nevertheless, 
 she officiated at her end of the table, her proud 
 prerogative being to pour out the coffee, with an air 
 worthy of the allegorical Peace and Plenty. Break- 
 fast over, with its Yarmouth bloaters and variegated 
 jams, the girls took to playing Ouija and other dis- 
 mal and prophetic games. 
 
 "Oh, Fortunata, do come and see Richard!" one 
 of them would cry, their faces plastered to the 
 window-pane, their noses turning pale. 
 
 And Fortunata must needs contemplate the tall 
 young man, in a flannel shirt, old knickerbockers 
 and very dirty boots, directing the farmers, point- 
 ing a brown wrist toward the drizzling horizon. 
 This blond youth was her husband, yet he was 
 nothing to her. When he kissed her, she was not 
 
 222
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 that self she had always known, and, fact unbeliev- 
 able, this man in whose anus she slept was to her 
 no one nothing. The line of the hills was no longer 
 discernible. It had melted away in the mist, re- 
 signed to an eternal downpour. The curate's carry- 
 all had passed the girls had caught a glimpse of 
 it through the foliage of the park and Lady Hickle- 
 bury's brougham went by, spraying mud. 
 
 "Gingerbread for lunch!" they cried, and one 
 might suspect as much from a pungent odor that 
 pervaded the house. Fortunata was overtaken by 
 loneliness, by a yearning for her own country, by 
 an attack of nostalgia. 
 
 Oh, Italy, thought Fortunata, incomparable land 
 of the South! 
 
 Fortunata danced attendance on the Dowager. 
 She attended her mother-in-law on a tour of in- 
 spection. The Dowager Lady Trevers tramped the 
 fields and passed, unlike Camilla, very heavily across 
 the wheat. Ruth and Naomi were never ^more to- 
 gether. They visited the vegetable garden, the hen- 
 yard, the barn. Fortunata was all intelligent in- 
 terest. She made the round mouth of admiration. 
 She threw out countless "Ohs!" The cows, she 
 said, had very lovely eyes. How fat the ducks were, 
 and yet how shapely. 
 
 The pleasantest hour was when, the sun beginning 
 to decline and the weather permitting tea was 
 served on the lawn among the old elms, to the caw- 
 ing of the rooks. Toasted cakes, buns, muffins, 
 were offered by the magnanimous footmen, with a 
 sad and generous air. Stock-on-Tremp in the back- 
 ground loomed flat as cardboard, like the fortress of 
 
 223
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 a theatre. After tea Fortunata went to her room. 
 Sunset is a dreary hour for those away from home. 
 She wrote to the Princess or her mother. The letter 
 to her Excellency was very jocular always, pro- 
 digiously entertaining; the Contessina poked all 
 manner of fun at her old bore of a mother-in-law, 
 at her wearisome husband, and more tiresome 
 sisters. To her mother she wrote vaunting the 
 merits of Doctor Powell's Germ Exterminator. She 
 entreated her to ask of the Dowager further particu- 
 lars as to these remedies. "Please do; it will make 
 us both so popular, mother dearest," wrote the sly 
 little wretch. Or, else, she watched the melancholy 
 northern sunset. Hardly was it to be believed that 
 this was the same orb that blazed down behind St. 
 Peter's in purple and gold. I was happier, thought 
 she, before I got myself a husband. Indeed, those 
 were pleasant days when she was on the warpath 
 and out for blood. Days of freedom! Oh, blessed 
 Liberty! The rooks sailed cawing through the 
 trees. She could not see for a mist before her eyes. 
 Sometimes of an evening the rain ceased. In the 
 long English twilights Richard and Fortunata went 
 for their walk. When distant from the hall, he 
 would put his arm around her, and at his side de- 
 murely she would go, more like a good child taken 
 out for an airing than an ecstatic bride. They 
 walked on the wet grass and under the dripping 
 branches. In the pasture the cows lay like bundles, 
 indistinct in the mist and the drizzle. Then Rich- 
 ard would tell her that he loved her and that she 
 was very pretty, which, of course, was flattering, yet 
 at this hour always she knew a poignant sadness. 
 
 224
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 His arm was about her, strong to shield; his heart 
 that loved her beat against her breast, yet she was 
 solitary and regretful. She alone knew herself; never 
 no, never could she love any one ! The tree-toads 
 were hushed. Everything slept. Only the anxious 
 gnats circled about and fussed, and could not rest. 
 
 "What tedious flies!" Dick would say, clutching 
 at the air. 
 
 Some women love only those indifferent to them, 
 and worship such as maltreat them. Fortunata be- 
 longed to this unmagnanimous order. Had Dick 
 beaten her regularly once a day, she might have 
 grown to love him, and have become an obedient 
 and devoted wife. As it was, the big blond oaf had 
 no discernment. He squandered his heart on her, 
 and thus estranged her more and more. He bored 
 her to extinction, and to be bored Fortunata could 
 not forgive. To faults she would have been indif- 
 ferent. In crime she might have become interested; 
 but to such stale jokes and annoying mannerisms 
 she could not reconcile herself. He has no con- 
 versation, he has no ideas! thought the bride. 
 He said "Confound it!" or "Fancy!" till she thought 
 she would scream. His way of speaking her name, 
 his "Fortunata this" and "Fortunata that" was a 
 pain to her. Talking he bored her, and he bored 
 her silent; he bored her laughing, and he bored her 
 sulky. He bored her when he kissed her, and he 
 bored her, if anything, more when he didn't; he 
 bored her just sitting there, with his handsome, 
 regular features and big expressionless eyes. He 
 got on her nerves like the squeaking of a slate- 
 pencil. Had it not been for his worship of her, 
 15 225
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 never could she have endured him! But she had 
 a just mind. She had made a bargain, and was 
 anxious to play fair. He is very tiresome, thought 
 she, but he is very necessary, and I shall always be 
 polite. She was invariably gracious, invariably re- 
 sponsive. 
 
 One by one the inmates of Stock-on-Tremp fell 
 victims to Fortunata's wiles. To stand well with 
 the household she did not spare herself. Mrs. 
 Krebs, the housekeeper, was besought to write 
 down the recipe for her herring patties and luscious 
 currant jelly. 
 
 "We don't have anything like that in Italy." 
 
 On being presented to Farmer Lytton's prize sow, 
 Fortunata expressed the intensest satisfaction, and 
 vaguely smiled on all the hayricks in the field. 
 
 With Lady Trevers her standing was enviable. 
 She knitted an antimacassar, and was cured of a 
 violent headache by three grains of Doctor Powell's 
 Sunbeams. Also, she ordered the Plutonian Weekly, 
 by reason of a graphic picture of "primitive tribes 
 dying of famine in the far East." 
 
 Nor with the girls was she less assiduous. In the 
 duets hers was always the difficult but less brilliant 
 part. For their album she found mottoes and 
 stuck in pictures, and messed herself in glue. She 
 marcelled their hair, and let them try on all her 
 hats; at the risk of tearing her clothes, she played 
 tag and blind-man's-buff. 
 
 Fraulein Ottilia Schmuck. the German governess 
 and companion, alone remained unsubjected. For 
 Fortunata she entertained that distrust that all well- 
 regulated Germans must feel toward any one with 
 
 226
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 a pretence to fashion or an approach to a waist. 
 Indeed, the Contessina had rather overlooked the 
 humble governess, knowing her of little consequence 
 in comparison with that institution, the servants' 
 hall. Yet the poorest retainer may turn the trend 
 of popular feeling, and Fortunata determined to 
 subjugate Fraulein Schmuck. She chose a time 
 when the governess was practising on the piano. 
 
 ' ' Te-de-te-tum ! Te-de-te-tum !" played Fraulein, 
 happily unconscious, wobbling her flaxen poll from 
 side to side. From the doorway, "Oh, that divine 
 Rubinstein!" sighed Fortunata, in fluent German. 
 There exists a British prejudice to an over amount 
 of culture. Fraulein turned, startled and distrust- 
 ful, yet stirred in spite of herself by her mother 
 tongue. Fortunata came across until only the table 
 stood between them, then she said: "I have often 
 thought we should be friends. We are both stran- 
 gers here, both lonely, so far, each, from her own 
 country, each always thinking of her own father- 
 land." She smiled, half-pleadingly, as she leaned 
 across the table and stretched out her straight white 
 hand. Poor, sentimental Fraulein Schmuck was im- 
 mediately disarmed. She seized it in both her own: 
 
 "Ach ja, gnadige Frau! Ach ja!" 
 
 She blushed very much and shed her ready Ger- 
 man tears. From that day forth Fraulein was For- 
 tunata's sworn slave, waited on her abjectly, and 
 followed her every gesture with gentle, foolish eyes. 
 
 Fortunata enjoyed herself hugely, coquetting 
 with the Church of England. She would advance 
 almost into the arms of the Protestant faith, then 
 draw coyly back. To convert her, she had half the 
 
 227
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 clergy in Wiltshire, not to mention her mother-in- 
 law. Fortunata was popular always with religious 
 people. The clergy could never withstand her. 
 The deplorable falling away of the church, the ethics 
 and the creed gave her fine opportunities for talk. 
 She assumed the opposed view, argued warmly, 
 grew uncertain, hesitated, said, " Now that you put 
 it to me that way " listened, edified; across her 
 pretty face dawned the smile of faith. 
 
 "Though your wife, Richard, shows the grossest 
 ignorance of spiritual facts, and though her relatives 
 are such that well, really" and the Dowager 
 discreetly left the comparison unfinished "still she 
 humbly admits her shortcomings; she wants to 
 mend; she means well. Indeed, Richard, I believe 
 her to be a young woman of high principle and very 
 fair intelligence." 
 
 What praise! Dick was light-headed. He came 
 to his wife: "Mother says that you are so sweet, 
 so good." 
 
 Fortunata smiled at him in her gentle way. She 
 answered: "I try to be." 
 
 The Ladies Gwendolyn and Amelia were infatu- 
 ated with their sister-in-law. They clamored for 
 her hats, her stays, her false curls. They bounced 
 into her room without so much as by your leave. 
 
 "One or the other," wrote Fortunata to her aunt, 
 "is always at my side, sticking to me. The Siamese 
 twins must have got, oh, so bored with each other! 
 The only peace I know is in my bathtub!" 
 
 Fortunata found the time tedious. Since there 
 were no distractions, she planned and worked for 
 the future. Her husband, she determined, must be 
 
 228
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 fired with ambition for a diplomatic career. His 
 lethargic nature dismayed her. 
 
 "Dear Dick," she said, "if Lord Bolton would 
 only resign, and the first attach^ be dismissed, and 
 Hawley and Lord Kerryford die off, with a little 
 care and a little cleverness you could be ambassador 
 in no time." 
 
 "Hang it, Fortunata, what for?" exclaimed Lord 
 Trevers. "To work like a navvy, to have all the 
 responsibility, no more good times, and all the ser- 
 vice to jaw at me." 
 
 Narrow mind, mused Fortunata; limited out- 
 look! And she went on braiding her hair, for it 
 was bedtime. Richard stood behind her, looking 
 fondly down on the crown of her head. He was in 
 his shirt-sleeves; a lack of coat is unbecoming to 
 the vulgar, but a gentleman can stand the test. 
 
 "Fortunata, you would hardly believe it, but at 
 times I am almost tempted to give up diplo- 
 macy." 
 
 "My dearest husband, what madness!" the little 
 schemer exclaimed. "Why, Lord Bolton could 
 never get over your loss!" And she added, watch- 
 ing in the glass Richard's face: "You are so clever, 
 you have, when you want to, such tact. If you 
 would only be a little more what shall I say 
 well, a little more affable with the Italian attaches, 
 and the French, and the rest of them." Richard 
 was at a loss to understand how a well-bred Eng- 
 lishman could waste his time and thought on such 
 foreign vermin. In vain did Fortunata point out 
 that the wise Providence who had created English- 
 men had brought into being, for some undoubted 
 
 229
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 use, the people of the Continent. "And don't for- 
 get, dearest, that I am half Italian." 
 
 "Never, never, would one think it!" exclaimed 
 the enamoured Richard, caressing with both hands 
 Fortunata's little triangle of a face. 
 
 "Ah, am I then so English?" breathed she, with 
 a sinking of the heart. 
 
 "You look like a sweet English girl, the sweetest 
 I have ever seen." 
 
 Alas! blundering Richard. "Sweet" and "Eng- 
 lish" were two adjectives particularly displeasing 
 to the modish Fortunata. 
 
 " I am too adaptable," mused she; "true love sees 
 with its own eyes. Yet this land of rain and ga- 
 loshes has stamped me already. One week more, 
 and my skirt will sag behind a la Gwendolyn. It is 
 time I was gone to you, Italia bellissima, country of 
 the sun and of the fountains and of the nightingales, 
 home of the lazzarone, of all filth, of the chiming of 
 bells to you, country of my heart!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 FORTUNATA was far from prudish, and ac- 
 customed to hear the most delicate matters 
 discussed openly after the Italian fashion; still, she 
 was quite unprepared for her mother-in-law's frank 
 concern and candid speculation, which neither time 
 nor company could repress, as to there being as yet 
 no promise of an heir to Lord Trevers's estate. 
 The Dowager's dreadful questions, the waggings 
 of her mournful head, and her eternal reference to 
 Doctor Powell, threw Fortunata into agonies of 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "Richard wishes a son first," the Dowager would 
 say. To hear her one would think that Richard's 
 wishes were omnipotent. "And so, of course, I sup- 
 pose, do you?" 
 
 "Oh yes, of course," said Fortunata, but with 
 a glum face, for the Contessina was not devoted to 
 children. "And, indeed," she was wont to say, 
 "why should I be?" Isn't it too annoying, she 
 mused, that a woman of my beauty and talent should 
 be called on to have a family; almost any one can 
 do that. 
 
 During the afternoon, if the downpour ceased, the 
 Dowager's landau, a respectable, generous-looking 
 conveyance, drew up at the door. The four ladies 
 went a-driving through the pleasant English lanes. 
 
 231
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The green of the foliage refreshed Fortunata's 
 beauty-loving spirit. The Dowager passed through 
 the village, visited the bed-ridden old women and 
 lent tracts, after the approved manner of the nobil- 
 ity in fiction. Goody Someone in her brick kitchen 
 told the Ladies from the Hall of her aches and her 
 pains and rheumatism. Fortunata's glance strayed 
 into the garden where sturdy, fair -haired children 
 were playing, and she smiled her sweet young 
 smile at them. She suffered, and from a terrible 
 malady that of ennui. To forge ahead by one's 
 wits, to dance out one's unpaid-for shoes, is thrilling 
 and worth while; but oh, the paralyzing sadness 
 of this present humdrum, respectable, comfortable 
 existence ! 
 
 After dinner, a formal meal, with the footmen in 
 plush, and when humble Schmuck had been ban- 
 ished to feed herself and re-read her mother's let- 
 ters, Gwendolyn would draw the covering from the 
 harp. She could perform, and with variations, 
 "The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls." As 
 a matter of fact, that harp was rarely still. She 
 clasped the strings with her arms and grasped 
 the frame with her knees, as though shinning up 
 a tree. Or, else, of an evening Gwendolyn and 
 Amelia fatigued the piano with their hurry-up 
 duets. Lord and Lady Trevers faced each other 
 at Authors or Logomachy. To beat Richard was 
 hardly worth while. Lord Trevers, habitually an 
 earnest, conscientious opponent, was now so proud 
 of his wife, that only his love of fair play kept him 
 from cheating in her favor. 
 
 "Dear me!" says the Dowager, reading from the 
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 Plutonian Weekly, "the Congregated Idiots hold 
 their annual picnic on the fifth," or, from a pam- 
 phlet, "Girls, your friend, Miss Abbot-Newton, has 
 another little brother." 
 
 "Oh, mamma, she has too many already!" cries 
 Amelia. 
 
 ' ' Too many ! A most offensive observation , ' ' says 
 the Dowager; "our best families are dying out. 
 The duty of every female connected with the Brit- 
 ish aristocracy " 
 
 "Cat!" says Fortunata, playing logomachy. 
 
 "Only one T, Fortunata," reproves Richard. 
 
 On other evenings the Dowager had whist parties. 
 Bridge had not yet penetrated the old skulls of 
 those invited. Grim Lady Hicklebury drove over 
 from the park, and several red-gilled gentlemen with 
 their ladies sat down to penny points, looking very 
 sad. Lady Trevers had completely won her mother- 
 in-law by learning whist. Fortunata was a flighty 
 player, though with inspirations of genius. In her 
 lapses of memory she asked, "What is trumps?" 
 then drifted into dreams. With what burnings of 
 the heart did she regret her frivolous nights of old. 
 Ah, those waltzes divine, when the roses she wore, 
 crushed against the heart of her partner, gave out 
 their fragrance! Then her feet, untiring, danced 
 through the dawn to the stirring shrillness of the violin . 
 Perfume, are you lost ? music, are you stilled forever ? 
 
 "I take your queen!" cries the Dowager, in the 
 voice of a policeman arresting a robber, and Fortu- 
 nata, brought back to the meaningless array of 
 black and red spots, sees all the legless court dance 
 in a haze. 
 
 233
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Steadily fell the rain! One might have thought 
 the allegorical windows of heaven were once again 
 opened. The dining-room was funereal. The long, 
 white table shone like a pall. The paper rosettes on 
 the mutton chops drooped in a deep dejection. The 
 butler, grown fat and asthmatic, creaked about with 
 the heavings of a mournful hippopotamus. Nor did 
 the hostess's aspect tend to enliven the banquet 
 her head, enswathed in an immense turban, gave 
 her the aspect of a fierce and gloom-struck Saracen. 
 On the fish being handed, a voice from the turban 
 hoped that the rain would cease. At coffee the tur- 
 ban feared that if the rain should continue the crops 
 would be entirely rotted. It is no easy task to act 
 at once the talker and the listener to be as it were 
 a social ventriloquist; but Fortunata, undaunted, 
 performed this feat. She burst into a monologue; 
 she discoursed with animation, with head flung 
 back ; her features glowed with their usual excessive 
 pallor, her eyes flashed; she spread her arms in the 
 large Italian gestures. She discussed at random 
 missionary work in the chilling climate of Labra- 
 dor, the merits of homoeopathic treatment, Richard's 
 resemblance to a bust of one of the earlier Roman 
 emperors. The questions asked by herself she volu- 
 bly answered. At her own remarks she expressed 
 the politest interest or the most boundless surprise. 
 With eloquence she grew light-headed. What an 
 able statesman, thought she, I should have made; 
 and a shade of sadness came over her as at wasted 
 capabilities. The Dowager forgot all austerity, hyp- 
 notized by such a flow of language. In the shade 
 of the turban she rolled the eyes of the mesmerized, 
 
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 "To-day," said the Dowager, "the Bishop is 
 coming to dine." 
 
 "The Bishop!" cried Fortunate. "Oh, how de- 
 lightful!" 
 
 "My Lord Bishop of Halsbury," continued the 
 Dowager, "has done much good." 
 
 "Oh, I am dying to meet him!" 
 
 "I hope that you will talk with him, Fortunata," 
 said Dick, looking at his mother. 
 
 "I hope that he will talk to me," quoth Fortu- 
 nata. 
 
 Mother and son interchanged a glance. 
 
 They want to convert me! thought Fortunata. 
 And all day long she was so happy, she said, think- 
 ing about the Bishop. 
 
 There is such a thing as playing a part over-well. 
 Fortunata' s emotion at the prospect of meeting the 
 Bishop was a trifle too profound. One may be car- 
 ried away by histrionic talent. Like all artists, she 
 was gifted with an astonishing intuition of character. 
 She was, nevertheless, in her self -appreciation, apt 
 to underrate others. She found it easy to deceive, 
 and as she did not credit any one with a sense of the 
 grotesque, rarely exerted her subtlety. On her hus- 
 band, who in her heart she had summed up as an 
 entire fool, she passed off the grossest artifices and 
 most palpable lies. She was wrong. Richard was 
 not unintelligent. He awoke at moments to a realiza- 
 tion of situations, to a grasping of motives. Coming 
 from his lethargic nature, intuition astonished, as 
 might the flash of a meteor in a leaden sky. 
 
 "My Lord Bishop!" announced the butler. A 
 jolly old gentleman, with a shock of white hair and 
 
 235
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 as rotund as Santa Claus, came bobbing into the 
 room. 
 
 "Dear Bishop!" said the Dowager. 
 
 "Dear Lady Trevers! And how is Richard?" 
 asked my Lord Bishop of Halsbury, shaking hands 
 with Dick. 
 
 "I am well; but I have had a cold," answered 
 Lord Trevers. 
 
 "My daughter-in-law, Bishop," said the Dowager, 
 with a glowing tenderness "my dear Fortunata!" 
 
 The Bishop made a bow and Fortunata a curtsey, 
 the demurest ever seen. 
 
 "I am charmed!" murmured the Bishop. 
 
 "And I," said Fortunata. Whereupon she gave 
 him her hand. He liked all young, pretty creatures. 
 Soon they were the firmest of friends. The clergy 
 never could withstand Fortunata. Such a passing 
 of compliments, such a bowing and bending as took 
 place during dinner between my Lord Bishop and 
 Fortunata! Such smiles, such pretty speeches! 
 
 "Champagne?" 
 
 "No, thank you," said Fortunata. 
 
 "My daughter-in-law never takes wine, Bishop," 
 announced the Dowager. 
 
 "I don't care for the taste," murmured Fortunata, 
 with the upward look of a seraph. 
 
 But when after dinner the Bishop singled her out 
 where she sat by the fire, and leaving the other 
 guests, mere bucolic gentry, came across to talk 
 with her, she changed her tactics. At first sight 
 she had discovered that he was a genial, pleasant 
 Bishop, who gave not a rap for her religion, and 
 would not care to convert her if he could. He had 
 
 236
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 been to Italy, and loved it. They talked of Rome. 
 In spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears at the 
 familiar names. It was pretty to see the old clergy- 
 man and Fortunata, her head like a flower turned 
 toward him, both smiling delightedly. 
 
 When the company was gone, ' ' Nice old boy, the 
 Bishop," declared Dick. 
 
 "His sermons are admirable," announced the 
 Dowager. 
 
 "He is kind, I am sure," said Fortunata, "and 
 good." 
 
 In marrying, Fortunata had believed that she 
 saw through her husband like glass, that she could 
 wind him like a thread around her finger. She was 
 quickly disillusioned. His simplicity was more ap- 
 parent than real, an effect given by his British 
 manner like certain puzzles that to the eye seem 
 easy, but, when studied, prove baffling. To grasp 
 what Richard meant, she had to readjust her views, 
 and even then she did not always understand him. 
 
 Lord Trevers bred cattle and horses. He was 
 forever vaunting the perfection of his stock. A colt 
 had a blemish and ended in the shambles. Illness, 
 weakness, infirmity shocked him as things indecent. 
 One morning Richard and she, when walking, had 
 met a boy painfully lame, dragging along on his 
 crutches. Fortunata had stopped to talk with the 
 child, touched by that fragile, appealing combina- 
 tion of youth and illness. All the while Dick kept 
 murmuring "Come on!" The child passed. Look- 
 ing up at her husband, Fortunata was arrested by 
 his expression of pain and irritation. 
 
 "I can't understand," he said, "the pleasure 
 2 37
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 women take in talking to cripples and deformed 
 children. I call it beastly. People like that boy 
 ought to keep out of sight. I put health before 
 beauty. It is your soundness, your perfection, I 
 like in you." 
 
 She was not pleased, but smiled up at him, sure 
 of a perennial charm. 
 
 As for his will, it was of iron. Once he was de- 
 termined, protestations, tears, moved him no more 
 than the wind. In no relationship had Fortunata 
 ever before been the weaker. As for his faults, she 
 came across them constantly a thick-skinned insen- 
 sibility, a lack of tact and gentleness that amounted 
 almost to brutality. 
 
 Rover was Richard's favorite dog a prize setter, 
 now old, a venerable and kindly animal. In his 
 visits to the village he had met with misfortune. 
 Some malicious person had thrown scalding water 
 over him. It was sad to see the poor beast, his 
 back one great sore. With time he grew better, the 
 skin healed, but the hair refused to grow. One 
 morning Fortunata, out earlier than usual, came 
 across her husband and the keeper. The men were 
 leaning on their guns, talking together and looking 
 at Rover, who sat gravely between them. 
 
 "Dick!" called Fortunata. 
 
 Lord Trevers turned and, with his quick, pleas- 
 ant smile, came to her. 
 
 "Go back, Rover!" he said to the dog, who wanted 
 to follow him. 
 
 Something in his face made her ask: "What is 
 the matter with Rover?" 
 
 He hesitated, then told her: "I have decided to 
 238
 
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 have him killed. Oh, he won't suffer; it will be 
 over in a flash." 
 
 In Fortunata everything revolted. It seemed to 
 her a brutal crime. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, how can you, your old friend?" 
 
 "I don't believe in having maimed animals about." 
 
 "But he doesn't suffer; he enjoys himself so," 
 she pleaded, with tears in her voice. "Poor dumb 
 beast! If you had seen the way he was looking at 
 you when just now to kill him because he isn't 
 pretty any more! Oh, it's wicked!" 
 
 "I think it right," Lord Trevers answered, and 
 obstinately refused to meet her eyes. 
 
 I cannot make him change, she thought, and a 
 kind of chill passed over her a premonition of evil. 
 
 When the Dowager and the girls heard the story, 
 they set up a turmoil as at the murder of an old 
 friend. Even his mother could not think Richard 
 in the right. The women assailed him with cries 
 of regret and horror. Lord Trevers kept in perfect 
 humor, threw himself into a chair, lolled on his 
 spine and smoked. "You are all talking sentiment, 
 unhealthy bathos. If you women had more ex- 
 perience you would know the world isn't for the 
 weak; the cripples must go to the wall." 
 
 "For shame!" cried Fortunata. "If one of us 
 were to go blind, for instance, would you have us 
 killed?" 
 
 "That's silly!" cried Richard, always annoyed by 
 a call on his imagination. "Besides, it would be 
 murder. The law wouldn't allow it. But I will 
 tell you one thing: the way of our institutions, our 
 asylums, are run is a disgrace a blot on England. 
 
 239
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Why, mother, will you believe it, near Birmingham 
 there is an institution for the blind; blind children 
 are brought up there, and intermarry. Think of 
 the race they breed. By Jove! It makes me ill!" 
 He stretched out his long legs, stood up and lounged 
 out.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 HPHIS is a grave, thought Fortunata a grave 
 1 where the post comes. How sad to spend one's 
 life with a husband, an old British female and her 
 tiresome daughters! 
 
 Yet she let slip no opportunities; she learned to 
 drive tandem, in spite of rain and fog. On horse- 
 back she took the highest leaps in the country. She 
 visited the nobility and the gentry about; made a 
 conquest of old Lady Hicklebury. Her Ladyship 
 led Fortunata over the Hicklebury Park and pointed 
 out a labyrinth where, rumor said, King Charles the 
 First had been hid. All such legends Fortunata 
 learned by heart, and told very prettily. Lord 
 Trevers declared that she knew more of Wiltshire 
 than he himself. 
 
 Lady Hicklebury, the sun growing affable and 
 showing his face, gave a garden-party in Fortunata's 
 honor. The county people came from every side 
 in chaises and dog-carts, in jolly coaches, and dusty 
 sea-going landaus ; all the young ladies of the county 
 were there in lawn dresses that did not disguise 
 their blue elbows. Fortunata was not a little re- 
 freshed by the sight of a few, a very few, young 
 men officers in the Indian service. She was happy, 
 and flirted outrageously. 
 
 Lord Trevers strode away from her across the 
 
 16 241
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 lawn taller and bigger and handsomer than any 
 one else, but very sombre about the brow. 
 
 Satisfied, she watched him. He was the cleanest, 
 the best -groomed mortal, with the quick, active 
 grace of a man hardened by physical exercise. He 
 had about him that indescribable look of the world. 
 A tendency to near-sightedness gave him the air of 
 a personage. So satisfied was he with his appear- 
 ance as to forget it. Fortunata concluded that she 
 might well have found a more repellent husband. 
 
 "Who is that lady?" she asked, pointing to a tall 
 woman, who in yards and yards of lace, much over- 
 dressed, and burdened with jewels, was traipsing 
 about in the middle of the lawn. 
 
 "Violet Gillespie, by Jove !" said one of the officers, 
 putting up his eye-glass. 
 
 "Violet is well with the world now, since the 
 Bishop's wife has taken her up." 
 
 "Sly little Violet!" laughed the other, in ad- 
 miration. 
 
 "She's giving a ball, I hear, and, mark me, she'll 
 have the very best people." 
 
 Fortunata was at once attracted by Mrs. Gillespie, 
 but on nearer inspection thought her splendor a 
 little tarnished. Her diamonds were a trifle yellow, 
 her turquoises a trifle green. In short, the lady her- 
 self was a shade off-color. As she drove home with 
 Richard in the dog-cart, followed by the Dowager 
 and her daughters in the victoria, "Why do so 
 many people disapprove of Mrs. Gillespie, Dick?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 "She has the worst reputation," replied Richard, 
 gloomily for to his taste his wife had been over- 
 
 242
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 winning with the officers. "She is fast and loud 
 and bad style." 
 
 "Gracious!" exclaimed Fortunata, much im- 
 pressed. "She is going to give a ball." 
 
 "Well, she will get none of us," Lord Trevers de- 
 clared, in a tone that meant "and serve her right, 
 too." 
 
 At dinner Fortunata harped on this string. "Mrs. 
 Gillespie does not seem popular, Lady Trevers." 
 
 "She's a divorced woman," the Dowager made 
 answer, soup-ladle in hand, fishing sadly in the 
 tureen. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Fortunata, interested. She was 
 about to ask more, when her mother-in-law rolled 
 up her eyes in warning, as if to say, "Remember the 
 chaste ears of my daughters!" 
 
 "I wonder," hazarded Fortunata, nibbling her 
 bread, like an intelligent squirrel "I wonder if Mrs. 
 Gillespie will ask us to her ball?" 
 
 "That to me is a matter of complete indifference," 
 sternly replied the Dowager. ' ' Our family and that 
 of Colonel Gillespie have been at odds since the time 
 of James the First." 
 
 "Time does fly, of course," Fortunata acquiesced, 
 "but that does seem rather far back." 
 
 "Should Mrs. Gillespie so far forget herself and 
 her past as to send an invitation to my son's house 
 Richard, none of us ever have or ever shall pass 
 that woman's threshold." 
 
 "There, Fortunata, you hear mother." 
 
 Fortunata answered, "Yes, dear," but she could 
 hardly refrain from throwing her chop at him. 
 
 In good time the invitations came. Fortunata 
 243
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 coaxed, she wheedled: "Just for a moment, Dickon 
 dearest! Just to see how they waltz in England 
 if they all dance as well as you do!" 
 
 "You shall not go!" said Dick; and he brought his 
 hand down so heavily on the table that it trembled. 
 
 "I shall not go?" repeated Fortunata, in a per- 
 plexed voice. Indeed, she was utterly astonished 
 that any one should dare to lay down the law to 
 her. A wave of anger swept over her, so intense 
 that her knees trembled; yet her expression was 
 not changed, for when really moved her features 
 turned mask-like and varied not an atom. Only 
 under her eyes black shadows spread slowly. With 
 head inclined, she stood swaying gently from side 
 to side, like a child repeating a lesson. Under her 
 fair hair she glanced from her husband to his mother 
 with grave, questioning eyes. These singular eyes 
 of hers had in general on poor Richard a magical 
 effect, yet now he did not waver, though a deep 
 brick color flushed his face and forehead. As for 
 the Dowager, she sat primly upright, the corners 
 of her mouth drawn in and wearing the expression of 
 one who in company inadvertently swallows a pickle. 
 
 "Fortunata, you understand me," from Dick 
 again, "you shall not go"- and thump once more 
 the table trembled. 
 
 Fortunata said nothing. By her expression one 
 would have judged her profoundly pensive. After 
 a moment she turned and walked away slowly, 
 with head bent, as though lost in deep thought. 
 
 It was the date of Colonel Gillespie's ball, and 
 Fortunata thought the country looked more awake 
 
 244
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the trees on the watch, the birds brighter, as 
 though on the lookout for the train of carriages that 
 must pass. 
 
 That night at dinner she declared that she felt far 
 from well . She complained of a headache neuralgia , 
 she thought. 
 
 "Like your headaches before we were married?" 
 questioned Lord Trevers, anxiously. 
 
 "Somewhat the same. The pain shoots down like 
 this," drawing her finger along her cheek. 
 
 "Perhaps it is a tooth," suggested Richard. 
 
 "Certainly not!" very coldly, for Fortunata 
 prided herself, and with reason, on her sound, beau- 
 tiful teeth. 
 
 "A face-ache, possibly," suggested the Dowager. 
 
 Fortunata indignantly denied an ailment so 
 plebeian. 
 
 "If you will excuse me, Lady Trevers, I will go 
 to my room. Richard, I shall take a little chloral 
 and sleep through the night, and wake cured. If 
 I want anything, I shall ring." 
 
 "Fortunata," warned the Dowager, in a voice of 
 an ogress, "you are very foolish, very wicked, to 
 take those strong drugs. Try Doctor Powell's Sleep- 
 giver homoeopathic, harmless, and soothing." 
 
 ' ' You are right, Lady Trevers, as you always are ; 
 I will give up my chloral. But to-night let me be 
 weak. Dick, you won't knock at my door to ask 
 how I am it would disturb me, dear." 
 
 The pretty little sufferer kissed her relatives good- 
 night tenderly, and went to her room. 
 
 "Quick, Hortense," she cried "my dress!" 
 
 Satin enfolded her. The inestimable Trevers dia- 
 245
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 monds were sprinkled through her hair like the stars 
 of Ariadne's tiara. She no longer knew herself for 
 the simple girl of the last few months, with her 
 modest dresses and choking collars for the sweet 
 young wife. Hortense, mysterious as an assassin, 
 went forth to reconnoitre. Fortunata felt some 
 shame at thus conspiring with a servant. The maid 
 delighted in representing Monsieur Milord as a 
 monster of unkindness. She returned, making the 
 boards creak with her cautious feet, and announced 
 in a stage-whisper that the hall was empty. 
 
 As Lady Trevers turned to go, she looked back 
 proudly into the glass over her shoulder, as though 
 to say, "England, I defy you to find such another 
 woman!" Noiselessly as a shadow she passed down 
 the stairs, turned the corner, and there stood her 
 husband! Pale with fright, she fell back against 
 the balustrade; her heart beat a retreat, throbbing 
 like a muffled drum. 
 
 "Great heavens, Fortunata, how white you are!" 
 And he went into all manner of exaggerations over 
 her health she was worse, seriously ill; she must 
 see the doctor. It was that apple-tart. 
 
 "I am better. I came to tell you that I am bet- 
 ter," she chirped, with the false sprightliness in- 
 spired by anxiety and guilt. 
 
 "Why have you on these heavy things ?" he asked, 
 touching her cloak and the scarf that tied her hair. 
 
 "I am cold," she faltered, beginning to shiver. 
 And now, as fate would have it, the groom outside, 
 hearing Lady Trevers's voice, opened the door and 
 announced, "The carriage, my Lady!" 
 The carriage ? Where are you going ?" 
 246
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Where am I going? Where am I going?" re- 
 peated Fortunata, with a dreadful blandness. Her 
 haggard gaze ran up the wall to a portrait of a 
 Trevers a mitred abbot who sat in state in his 
 robes. 
 
 "Where are you going at this time of night? 
 Answer me, Fortunata!" 
 
 She brought her glance down to his very limpid, 
 pure, and lovely were her eyes. Her answer was 
 "To the Bishop's." 
 
 "To the Bishop's at this hour?" 
 
 "Yes; odd time, isn't it?" she agreed, glibly. 
 "But to-morrow he has a conclave, and the next 
 day an appointment at Sarum. There is something 
 I want to ask him oh, so much, the dear, good 
 man! I must see him, late as it is. I can't wait. 
 Oh, Richard, I have a surprise in store for you 
 perhaps perhaps, I can make you very happy." 
 
 "My darling, I understand. You want to find 
 what's good in our belief, in mother's and mine. Oh, 
 how glad this will make her! Just to think that 
 you are doing this for me how you must love me! 
 He put back the sleeve of her coat. He kissed her 
 hand, and wanted to kiss her arm. Fortunata, how- 
 ever, fearing that he might discover how much of 
 her carnal body was displayed for calling on a holy 
 man whose business was with the converting of her 
 soul, pressed her husband's hand tenderly, made a 
 hasty retreat to her carriage, called out "To the 
 Bishop's!" and drew to the door. 
 
 The musicians are tuning up, thought she; the 
 flutes are trying their voices; all the company are 
 
 247
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 assembled! She was carried past Mrs. Gillespie's 
 house a train of carriages was in waiting. The 
 Japanese lanterns weighted every tree exotic, 
 effulgent fruit. All at once, to her own surprise, 
 she let down the window. 
 
 "To Colonel Gillespie's!" she commanded. 
 
 As Lady Trevers's carriage rolled homeward from 
 the ball, the day was risen. At the blacksmith's 
 forge, across the meadow, the hammers were already 
 clanging and the fire glowed, while on the fields a 
 mist lay sleeping. All that night Fortunata had 
 been madly gay with the joy of wrong-doing of 
 letting her scruples go with the wind and hazard- 
 ing her future. But now the morrow had dawned, 
 the day of reckoning; in fancy already she met her 
 husband's bewildered face; his questioning assailed 
 her. Her mother-in-law's glum countenance rose 
 before her with dismal upper lip. The enormity of 
 what she had done came over her, and she turned 
 cold. 
 
 I must have been mad ! she thought. 
 
 Indeed, it was incredible that one so calculating, 
 so willing to resign pleasure for self-advancement, 
 should have been led astray by the squeakings of a 
 few fiddles. Accustomed as she was to the hazard- 
 ous Roman life, where she could never guess what 
 the next morning might hold, she had been stifled, 
 asphyxiated by the monotony of these days. Yet 
 strong as was her love of gayety, it had not prompt- 
 ed her to run this risk. No ; it was her vanity this 
 time, as so often before, that had tripped her up. 
 She had wanted to show herself, her young, resplend- 
 ent self, whose charm had carried off the handsomest, 
 
 248
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the richest, the most gossiped-of man in Wiltshire, 
 a man for whom all the mothers of the county had 
 fought, for whom all the daughters disputed to 
 show her fine clothes and her curious, foreign beauty. 
 
 "I have thrown away the work of two months. 
 The old martinette " thus had she christened the 
 Dowager "will never forgive me." 
 
 The Contessina, looking uncommonly disconso- 
 late, was driven on, pale as a wraith in the light of 
 the morning, her spirited chin sunk in the folds of 
 her cloak. 
 
 The brougham ran for home, and above the trees 
 the towers of Stock-on-Tremp reared their stern 
 angles. Fortunata had left orders for Hortense to 
 open to her the little postern - gate. But Lord 
 Trevers, himself, undid the door. Like a splendid, 
 broad-shouldered young monk, he loomed in his 
 dressing-gown with a tasselled rope around his waist. 
 He did not speak, but led his wife into the house, 
 closed the door, and drew the bolts. In the dark- 
 ness of the hall she felt his eyes upon her. 
 
 He knows! she thought. 
 
 "Where have you been?" 
 
 "You know; why do you ask me?" she answered, 
 not without spirit. 
 
 He took her by the wrist; his hand closed uncon- 
 sciously about hers like a vise, and as she felt his 
 anger, his resentment, perversely enough she felt that 
 she loved him almost. He turned to the nearest 
 room. Here, evidently, he had been waiting. The 
 curtains were drawn. There was a lamp on the table, 
 and a magazine. This was a bedroom, long unused 
 and grown musty. On the opposite wall hung an 
 
 249
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 allegorical painting Destruction with a torch fly- 
 ing over a dismal field of carnage. Lord Trevers 
 dropped his wife's hand and stood erect, looking 
 at her. She stepped to the mirror, let the cloak 
 fall from her shoulders, and studied herself intently. 
 Nevertheless, she had a wary eye for her husband. 
 
 "You look at yourself in the glass too often," he 
 said, brutally. 
 
 She flared up. "I like my face, and I shall look 
 at it when I choose. I am very pretty, or at least 
 very charming." 
 
 "Oh, Fortunata, you told me what wasn't true!" 
 The accusation burst from him like a sob. 
 
 "Do you accuse me of lying?" she demanded, 
 haughtily. 
 
 "You did not go to the Bishop's." 
 
 "So you spy on me!" 
 
 "It was five o'clock, and you had not yet come 
 home. I went to the Palace. The gates were closed. 
 The lodge-keeper told me you had not passed." 
 
 "You were misinformed," declared Fortunata, 
 who could never make a full confession "the 
 Bishop was from home, at Colonel Gillespie's, if 
 you please; so I went there." 
 
 "Oh, Fortunata, why did you how could you 
 after all you heard mother say?" 
 
 "I am a married woman, and old enough to do as 
 I think fit," she cried, flinging up her chin, arrogantly. 
 
 "You are my wife, and never shall do what I or 
 my mother disapprove." 
 
 "For twenty-three years, Richard, I have man- 
 aged to exist without your guidance or that of your 
 admirable mother, and I shall continue to do so." 
 
 250
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Not while you bear my name.'* 
 
 "Then I don't want your name if I can't do as 
 I like!" she cried, proud as Lucifer. 
 
 "My mother does not know of this," said poor 
 Dick, pacing up and down, "and she must not. 
 She will read of it in the papers, of course, and think 
 it a mistake. Some one will speak to her of it, and 
 get well snubbed. No one else will again dare to 
 mention the subject to her. We must keep it from 
 her. I will do everything short of telling a lie. 
 Oh, Fortunata, what a position you have put me in ! 
 I must deceive my own mother! If she ever knew, 
 it would break her heart." 
 
 He sat down, hunched up, the image of dejection. 
 
 She saw that he was hurt, that his case was dan- 
 gerous. She must fight back to where she had stood 
 with him, or lose his love and her influence forever. 
 Fortunata had early learned the power of words on 
 her husband. A flow of language soothed and con- 
 vinced him, even when he did not grasp the argu- 
 ment. She now turned upon him and submerged 
 him with her talk. Was it possible, could he be- 
 lieve, that a few wax candles, a few fiddles, were 
 dearer to her than his approval how he misunder- 
 stood her! It pained her to be so misjudged! Yet 
 it was for him, for him only, that she had braved 
 criticism, appeared all alone among aliens and for- 
 eigners, hazarding his love for her and that of his 
 dear mother. 
 
 Yes, she repeated, it was for him. Well might 
 he look startled and perhaps a little ashamed. Did 
 he ask why? She would tell him. Lady Hickle- 
 bury, she knew, represented a powerful faction; 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 Mrs. Gillespie was her protegee; many of the best 
 people frequented the Colonel's house; the Bishop 
 was his friend. Suppose, then, that all Stock-on- 
 Tremp refused the invitation, what a slight was im- 
 plied! What open criticism of those who accepted! 
 This was a bad beginning for Lord and Lady Trevers. 
 They were thereby merely laying up unpopularity 
 for themselves. 
 
 "I have often told mother," said Dick, looking 
 at Fortunata with more familiar eyes, "that her 
 prejudices were " 
 
 "I will not hear a word of criticism of your 
 mother, Richard!" interrupted Fortunata. "I said 
 to myself," she continued, "I shall not get per- 
 mission to go, but go I must, for my Dick's sake. 
 I worship truth; but in his cause no scruples shall 
 hinder me. I accounted for your non-appearance; 
 I told Mrs. Gillespie you were taken suddenly ill." 
 
 "What disease did I have?" asked Richard, with 
 awe. 
 
 "Quinsy." 
 
 "What is that?" he questioned, with growing ad- 
 miration. 
 
 "I don't know," she admitted. "No, Richard, 
 my judgment may have been at fault; but no selfish 
 love of pleasure prompted me. My thought was of 
 you, and you only. The end justified the means." 
 She came across to him and, sitting down at his feet, 
 crossed her hands and rested them on his knees. 
 The lamp was burning out, and in the uncertain 
 light her face had an illusive charm the singular 
 pallor that had always enchanted him. 
 
 "I understand your motives," Lord Trevers fal- 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 tered, "and, of course, you did not tell me a direct 
 falsehood " 
 
 "Richard," she said, "if I thought it would help 
 you if I thought it was for your good I would 
 tell a thousand lies don't you know it, Richard?" 
 
 "I don't know anything!" he groaned, feeling his 
 anger escaping him. "I love you that is all I 
 know." 
 
 "There is no sacrifice I would not make for you. 
 My husband, look at me and you will believe me." 
 A tender, mysterious smile illuminated her face. 
 
 He looked at her, and tears actually came into his 
 eyes. He put his arms about her, kissed her. ' ' For- 
 give me!" he said, humbled. "What you do is for 
 the best, always."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ''T'HE obstinate barometer, despite Plutonian black- 
 1 ness, pointed still to "Fair." In the shadow 
 of the hall the wet ulsters drooped like wraiths. 
 The girls, bored with putting off and on their ga- 
 loshes, brooded over the hearth, their wet feet in 
 the grate. 
 
 "Dearest Aunt Colibri," wrote Fortunata, "every- 
 thing is so damp and sticky, I am bored to death. 
 Is no one of my family dead or dying ? Is it not very 
 urgent that I should come home?" 
 
 Five days later, "Wake up, little one!" shouted 
 Dick, plunging his head into Fortunata's room at 
 the eerie hour of seven in the morning. 
 
 "Is that you, Sunbeam?" 
 
 "I have just come from the stables." 
 
 "So I might have suspected." 
 
 "There is a telegram for you." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Fortunata, both hands on her heart, 
 "I feel a sense of foreboding, something tells me 
 
 "Well, read and find out." 
 
 "No, read it yourself, dear; I haven't the courage." 
 
 Dick read: 
 
 "Tonsillitis set in and pleurisy feared. Come immedi- 
 ately. PRUDENZIA COLIBRI." 
 
 "There, didn't I tell you so!" she cried. 
 254
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Have you suffered much, dear Aunt?" asked 
 Fortunata, who, with her husband, had just reached 
 Rome and come direct to inquire after the Princess. 
 
 "I am better now," said the Princess, with a 
 sepulchral cough. "Where are you staying, Lord 
 Trevers?" 
 
 "We think of the Grand Hotel!" 
 
 "A horrid hole! Your apartment, I suppose, 
 isn't ready ? Come to me till then, and the business 
 details we can discuss later." 
 
 But the Contessina felt a distaste for the disrep- 
 utable home of her childhood. 
 
 "Our Italian cooking doesn't agree with Richard, 
 Zia," she said. She was beginning to find Richard 
 useful and Lord and Lady Trevers went elsewhere. 
 
 Fortunata felt some apprehension at thought of 
 her future home in the Via Vente Settembre, yet in 
 the physical sense, at least, it was the most charm- 
 ing of homes the panelled walls, the broad window- 
 sills, the hospitable chairs and deep divans seemed 
 to tell of the intimate life of a man and woman. 
 She regretted that she could not love Dick more. 
 His lack of humor of humor as she understood it 
 was a trial to her. She herself was alive always 
 to the ridiculous. She would glance at him for sym- 
 pathy, and there he sat looking over the top of his 
 collar, as glum as an ogre. She once asked him, 
 "Do you ever laugh?" 
 
 He answered, "Yes, I laugh often; I am very fond 
 of jokes." 
 
 His wife, Lord Trevers intended, should wait on 
 him by inches, but Fortunata was not that kind of 
 a Griselda. She, too, had done a little tyrannizing 
 
 255
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 to love her meant to suffer and to work for her. 
 She broke him in, till he fetched and carried for 
 her like a dog. It was pitiful to see this six-foot 
 mass of conceit grown so humble. He told her, 
 "It makes me so happy to wait on you " And 
 she answered, "Your life, then, will be one stretch 
 of sunshine, dearest." 
 
 Before marriage, Richard had settled in his mind 
 the sort of clothes his wife should wear tweed 
 frocks, low-heeled boots, a modest coiffure a severe 
 style, unlike Fortunata's frivolous chic. He showed 
 an obstinate dislike to certain colors and a pred- 
 ilection for blue of a washed-out shade, and hate- 
 ful to Fortunata. She managed him adroitly with 
 her talk and cheerfulness, as one guides a stubborn 
 horse who balks a fence. He found fault with her 
 extravagance, and rightly. She sucked up money 
 as a leech does blood. 
 
 Richard marvelled at his wife's vanity, yet she 
 might have pointed out the same faults in him. 
 The large complacence, however, with which Lord 
 Trevers regarded himself was beyond vanity. His 
 was the pride of the male, the pride that makes the 
 peacock strut and outshine its mate. He passed 
 hours at his tailor's, and was as earnest over his 
 toilettes as any fading belle of sixty. In his dress- 
 ing-room stood a forest of boot-trees. He had ties 
 and waistcoats multicolored. His coats hung from 
 forms on the walls so that in the dusk it was un- 
 canny to see them. At every chance he showed 
 Fortunata his clothes; discussed them, wondered if 
 they became him, with a simplicity that was dis- 
 arming. 
 
 256
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 She had once asked why he shaved his mustache. 
 "Let it grow; it gives a man such a brave look." 
 He answered, "My mouth is rather nice, and a 
 mustache would hide it." 
 
 His lips, indeed, were firm and well shaped; his 
 white teeth like genial tombstones; his chin square. 
 He knew his points, it seemed. 
 
 After a week their apartment was ready. Their 
 home stood open for them, and Fortunata found 
 that in her heart, although she had never known 
 it, she had been longing all her life long for some 
 walls to call her own. 
 
 She was an excellent housekeeper, neat and me- 
 thodical, talented in her management of servants. 
 Only in this, as in everything else, her shiftlessness 
 in money matters was apparent. Lord Trevers, 
 though far from mean, had a correct estimate of 
 money. He took her to task. 
 
 ' ' Italians throw money away. It is a Continental 
 fault," he told her, seriously. "It's in your blood; 
 your father was a spendthrift." 
 
 To which Fortunata answered, "All my life long, 
 Richard, I have done what I chose and had what 
 I wanted, and quarrelled with no one." 
 
 The season was in full swing, the air full of a 
 feverish gayety. Fortunata piloted her husband 
 through dinners, balls, festas. She spurred him on 
 to his duties as a diplomat. It was remarked by 
 the world that Trevers was unstiffening, was thaw- 
 ing out, was becoming civilized almost. Fortunata 
 worked strenuously to keep him afloat. Her nature 
 craved occupation. His career gave her life a 
 meaning his success was her aim. He made a 
 17 257
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 break, and she filled up the breach. She heard him 
 boring some one, and she took him off. She was 
 indefatigable, and steadily she pushed him ahead. 
 Already for herself she perceived an enviable middle 
 age her husband ambassador and under her thumb. 
 Thus Lady Trevers would have all England in her 
 hands. Patiently, courageously, intelligently, she 
 worked to make for herself a place in the world. 
 There was no youth too green but she could look 
 into his eyes and smile; no professor too pedantic 
 but with flashing looks she could discuss with him 
 fossils and Roman ruins; no old lady too deaf but 
 she bent, entranced, over the ear-trumpet. 
 
 Curiously enough, as Fortunata worked for Dick 
 and for herself, as she strove to fire him with her 
 own ability and ambition, as she was brought to 
 observe his slow-working, commonplace brain, she 
 felt her heart change toward him, and feeling his 
 dependence, grew fond of him. In some ways he 
 was her superior; she knew it, and from this fact 
 she drew a certain pleasure. If she had the better 
 brain, he had the better heart. He was earnest 
 where she was light; truthful where she was false; 
 faithful where she was capricious and unstable. She 
 was proud of his beauty, of his physical strength, 
 she liked his fondness for clothes, his well-groomed, 
 cleanly, masculine aspect. They were happy to- 
 gether, laughing across their little dinner-table, the 
 candles and a bowl of flowers keeping their whis- 
 pering heads apart. To him everything she said 
 was witty, everything she did was right; in his 
 eyes she was the most beautiful woman and the 
 nearest to perfection in the world. Certain minute 
 
 258
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 defects in her, such as a perverted taste for clothes 
 of a racy order, her delight in spending money, were 
 in his mind merely amiable caprices that sufficed to 
 make her adorably human. If at certain moments 
 the old thought persisted in cropping up that she 
 had deceived him, stolen off against his will to the 
 ball of a notorious woman, he gave his obsession 
 vent, questioned her over again, always hoping for 
 an answer that might lay the ghost of his unrest. 
 She never lost patience, but listened with attention, 
 lied to him with the politeness that seemed inbred. 
 In time he asked less and less often, and she began 
 to hope that he was free of his monomania.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 ONE day they had a quarrel a real quarrel. It 
 was in the evening. The Austrian ambassador 
 was holding an official reception. The diplomats 
 were to attend in full regalia. Dick came to Fortu- 
 nata's room to show himself off, as vainglorious as 
 a debutante before her first ball. He wore his splen- 
 did uniform, his great chest tattooed with orders and 
 ribbons and medals. He put his hand on the hilt 
 of his sword and looked toward his wife, with 
 conscious pride. He was not a little pleased with 
 himself. Fortunata, standing before the glass, en- 
 circling her throat with a string of pearls, cried, 
 "You're beautiful, Dick; word of honor!" 
 
 "This uniform doesn't look half bad on me," he 
 agreed. "Are you entirely dressed?" he suddenly 
 asked, arrested by his wife's costume. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Dressed completely?" he repeated. 
 
 "This," said Fortunata, pointing toward her 
 sheath skirt, "is the Directoire fashion." 
 
 "Beastly fashion, I call it." 
 
 "I hope the ballroom is in the basement," For- 
 tunata admitted, turning round and shimmering in 
 her serpentine splendor. "I don't know how I shall 
 step up the stairs." 
 
 "And is that all your own hair?" asked Richard, 
 260
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 more and more mystified by his wife's aspect. 
 "That great bunch on the back of your head?" 
 
 "Of course not. What a silly question!" 
 
 "I have always said that my wife should not wear 
 false hair. It's dirty; it's unwholesome whose 
 head has that come off of you don't know. I have 
 heard my mother say it heats the scalp/' 
 
 "Your mother would look better in a lock or 
 two," Fortunata exclaimed, now thoroughly an- 
 noyed. "Better than in those snuffy bathing caps 
 she wears. Talk about the unreasonableness of 
 w r omen; men are annoying. 'I want my wife,' 
 they say, 'to have a smartly dressed head, but she 
 sha'n't wear a switch, or a rat, or a strand of false 
 hair. My wife must be the smartest woman in the 
 room. Her gown has to be stunning, and it shall 
 cost her five hundred lire only." 1 
 
 ' ' I like simple things, ' ' Richard declared ; " a pretty 
 muslin frock looks better to me than all that giddy 
 twinkling stuff." 
 
 "A pretty fiddlestick!" cried Fortunata, losing all 
 patience. "My poor husband, you deceive your- 
 self. You have a quantity of ideas that you accept 
 from your mother all ready-made, and try to pass 
 them off as your own." 
 
 "If I must get my ideas ready-made, I could 
 choose them from no one better." 
 
 "You'll take them from me after a while," 
 said Fortunata boastfully. "You'll believe me in 
 time." 
 
 "I always listen to what you say," he answered. 
 "I do believe in you, although I do know of once 
 when you deceived me." 
 
 261
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Are you referring to that Gillespie world-with- 
 out-end?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm so angry with you," Fortunata declared, 
 "that I am tempted to stay at home, and let you 
 go to the Embassy alone and dish yourself." 
 
 "You cannot come with me in that dress. It is 
 not decent." 
 
 She saw that he was in earnest. By degrees she 
 must educate him to the style. She never struggled 
 against the inevitable, so she came to him and said, 
 "Richard, you know I only dress to please you. I 
 will change my gown." And she smiled at him 
 with the charm of expression that was hers. By 
 this move she bewitched him more than ever, had 
 it been possible. 
 
 For the first time Fortunata had been made to do 
 something against her will, and she was conscious 
 of an acute pleasure. She had met her master. 
 She revelled in the consciousness of a force superior 
 to her own. 
 
 Eugenic came to call sometimes, still talking of 
 La Valliere. Sometimes Antonia came; "sometimes 
 Luigi. Lord Trevers glumly received the latter. 
 "He's a braggart and a cad," Richard would say, 
 and Don Luigi learned that for one woman, at least, 
 he was not irresistible. Poor Francesca, who was 
 of so little account at home, found a heaven in Via 
 Vente Settembre. To this neglected child Fortu- 
 nata had generally been kind. Now she fed her, 
 made her presents, listened to her talk. Lord 
 Trevers was Francesca's friend, and in this atmos- 
 phere of shelter, of sympathy, the child bloomed, 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 told the secrets, the events of her desolate life, and 
 felt that she was at last one among human beings. 
 As for Antonia, she made Lady Trevers's sitting- 
 room her confessional. Dick had a distrust of her, 
 and at the sound of her summons, a distracted peal- 
 ing of the loggia bell, he left the house, bowing to 
 her sombrely as they passed on the stairs. An- 
 tonia' s visits were long and lamentable it seemed 
 that Luigi was falling away from her. "Ah!" she 
 would say, "it is inevitable. E il destino. There 
 is always one who loves the most. One kisses, and 
 the other takes the kiss!" And in turbulent sorrow 
 she would take herself off, flightily forgetting her 
 gloves or her purse, or a treasured note of Luigi's 
 which she had brought for Fortunata to peruse. 
 
 "Does the Colibri ever speak of your letters?" 
 Fortunata once asked her. 
 
 Antonia held out her arms, as though about to 
 be crucified. "My poor letters!" she cried. "I 
 shall never see them again!" 
 
 "I am not so sure," said Fortunata. "I am very 
 uneasy. As for me, the Madonna be thanked, I 
 am through with the Colibri forever! Yesterday I 
 paid her the last of the money I owed her." 
 
 It was true. By pilfering from the sum given 
 her for clothes and the household expenses, Fortu- 
 nata had discharged her debt of ten thousand eight 
 hundred lire to the Princess, together with its sub- 
 sequent interest. Very naturally, she had never 
 told Richard the discreditable story. She could 
 picture his amazement, his horror. 
 
 "You know, Antonia, she made me sign an agree- 
 ment. She wouldn't give me back the paper, 
 
 263
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 though. She swore that she'd torn it up. Some- 
 how, I don't believe her, and I can't help feeling 
 anxious. I wish I'd made her give me a receipt. 
 I'll make her write me an acknowledgment the next 
 time I see her." 
 
 It would, indeed, have been a wise precaution, 
 but Fortunata, distracted by thousands of interests, 
 forgot the unhappy business. 
 
 The sun looked in all day on Richard and Fortu- 
 nata in their home. Canaries sang in the windows, 
 flowers bloomed on every table. They had plenty 
 of money, many friends; they were flattered, spoiled, 
 made much of. So busy were they amusing them- 
 selves that they had no time to think. The winter 
 passed like an enchanted dream. Spring came, with 
 the promise of travel, of strange countries, of new 
 faces. 
 
 "Where shall w r e go, Fortunata?" Richard asked, 
 one evening, as they walked home through the sul- 
 try streets from the Circolodi Tennis. He strode 
 on beside her in his white flannels, holding the 
 rackets in his tanned hands. "To England to 
 Stock-on-Tremp ?" 
 
 In fancy, a stern old face rose up before Fortunata, 
 bristling with teeth. 
 
 "No," she said; "some place where you and I 
 can be alone." 
 
 "I think so, too," he agreed, with a heartiness 
 that refreshed her. 
 
 They had come into the house, exquisitely thirsty, 
 and in the sitting-room were taking lemonade 
 through straws. The blinds were down to keep 
 out the violence of the heat; the canaries twittered 
 
 264
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 one bar over and over again, as though striving to 
 learn a refrain. Richard had taken up a map and 
 was studying it. "What do you say to Perugia, 
 Fortunata? It's a dull hole, but I should like it," 
 he said, looking at her. 
 
 "So should I," she answered; and she was sur- 
 prised at her reply. Perugia, a sun-baked town, 
 lost among the hills : that meant that she would not 
 see a man she knew ; that Dick would walk her over 
 the hills, their two shadows side by side, unenliv- 
 ened by a third. Yet the prospect did not frighten 
 her; she told herself that it was for a few months 
 only, and would prove a rest-cure. To Rome she 
 would return, refreshed, rejuvenated, her wits 
 sharpened, ready to spur on Richard to a higher 
 post. Italian in all her viewpoints, she had meant 
 after her marriage to be the most talked-of woman 
 in Rome. She was not going very fast about her 
 business. Somehow, she found it harder to flirt. 
 She began almost to be afraid lest she might be de- 
 generating into a dull matron occupied with do- 
 mesticity, with housekeeping. At times she caught 
 herself quoting Dick appalling discovery ! She had 
 always scorned these dutiful and doting wives. 
 
 The house which they took was among the hills, 
 not far from Perugia, close to a stream. Goats 
 sprang upon the rocks, and the brown shepherds 
 came after, playing the flute and the pipes a 
 melancholy trill, a trifle flat, reiterated until it 
 gained the heart and filled the listener with the 
 mystic, throbbing wonder of the South. The sun 
 seemed greedy, trying to dry up all the rocks; the 
 lizards, stealthy of purpose, glistening with blue and 
 
 265
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 green, shot through the crevices like evil genii. 
 The edera pungente and other rampart plants spread 
 out their dusty, wicked leaves, and at every con- 
 tadino's window flourished the brutal red geranium. 
 At night nature relaxed, weary of engendering, 
 weary of the ardor of the sun. The moon rose in 
 the sky, seeming frail and virginal after the furies 
 of the day. Down in the well of the hills lay 
 Perugia a light here, a light there, studded with 
 sparks, it shone like a lower heaven. 
 
 Certainly, Richard was not entertaining. He was 
 anything but witty. His enemies might have called 
 him dull; still, it is a doubtful joy to be always in 
 the company of genius; and Lord Trevers possessed 
 one quality, rare in a person of will he was pleas- 
 ant to live with. Then, again, he was as handsome 
 as a god; and Fortunata, like many women, had an 
 exaggerated worship of the beautiful. 
 
 She rode like a fury to keep up with him. The 
 horses ran abreast along the Umbrian Plains, their 
 hoofs waking sparks on the dry Perugian roads. 
 The contadini passed, flowers behind their ears. 
 " Buon Viaggio ! Buona Cavalcata!" shouted they. 
 
 For the time she had given up all her false hair; 
 she took to low heels. 
 
 "You look ripping, Fortunata!" cried her hus- 
 band. "Those are the clothes you ought to wear 
 always. You're getting a jolly color like my 
 sisters." 
 
 Could it be, then, that her carefully acquired 
 charm was lost the exotic charm of the lotus? 
 Had she degenerated into the blousy cabbage-rose, 
 and rather a brown rose, alas! With a stab at the 
 
 266
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 heart, she marked a tracery of freckles fine but 
 undeniable across the bridge of her nose. She was 
 appalled; her conscience was shocked as at a de- 
 terioration of character. 
 
 In the evenings the two sat, side by side, at the 
 gate of the house looking across the valley, happy 
 with exercise, with fresh air. In the growing con- 
 fidence, the tenderness that dusk inspires, they 
 talked of their future and of the happiness they 
 meant to find in life. The air was still. Slender, 
 dishevelled, the willows soared up like enchanted 
 dryads, bewitched while dancing. The muleteers 
 drove home cracking their whips "Aye, aye, 
 avanti!" Far off, down in the pit of the hills, rang 
 the bells of Perugia far off, a breath of sound so 
 faint, so elusive, that one seemed to divine rather 
 than to hear it. 
 
 It was a night in August, the collazione was over. 
 Richard lounged out to the gate, a stocky pipe held 
 between his white teeth; he sat down by Fortunata's 
 side. Chin in hands, she was looking out across 
 the chasms like a young sphinx. For the last week 
 she had not been well. She had been aware of a 
 ringing in her ears, a sense of giddiness and pains 
 across the back of her head. 
 
 "Dick, the bells aren't ringing to-night," she said; 
 "why is that?" 
 
 "Perhaps it isn't a festa." Suddenly he lifted 
 his hand. "Listen! there they go." She heard 
 nothing. She listened again. "Why, no" she 
 hesitated. He turned to her in triumph. 
 
 "Your ears aren't as sharp as mine. You don't 
 267
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 suppose, Fortunata, you will have any trouble like 
 your mother's, eh?" 
 
 She looked at him with her dark, long-lashed 
 eyes, to which one never seemed to grow accus- 
 tomed. Incredulity was the dominant note of her 
 expression. 
 
 She had always had faith in her Providence. She 
 was too unusual, she thought, not to be protected. 
 Also, she was piqued that Richard could think her 
 capable of so unattractive an ailment as deafness. 
 It could not be yet all summer she never heard 
 the bells again. She was preoccupied, obsessed, 
 and the beauty of the nights was lost to her. She 
 kept a watch on herself. Did she miss what others 
 heard ? It seemed to her or was it an idea ? that 
 the finer noises, the rustle of the leaves, the fall of 
 the rain, all the subtleties of sound escaped her. 
 Deep down in her heart something stirred a fore- 
 boding, and a chill of more than Death came over 
 her. Not even to herself did she admit her fear; 
 but where she went there it was fear enveloped her 
 like a mist. It blotted out the glory of the Perugian 
 summer. 
 
 To herself Fortunata said, "God is good, every one 
 says so"; and she prayed him to keep her and the 
 few she loved from death and all that is evil.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 TPHEY were at home again. The butler, beam- 
 1 ing welcome, threw open the door. Fortunata 
 stood on the threshold, her eyes suddenly filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "Oh, Dick!" she said, "how I have grown to love 
 that lozenge wall-paper your mother chose. And 
 the table-cloth, I adore it !" She flung her arms out. 
 "All sun," she cried, "like the rooms that mother 
 dreams of, with a southern exposure on every side." 
 
 Debt, like the sword of Damocles, had hung over 
 her head all her girlhood. The walls of the Palazzo 
 Colibri had seemed to shelter her under protest. 
 Now she need no longer be ashamed or afraid. 
 Here in the face of all men was her home; it be- 
 longed to her; it was hers to alter, to take care 
 of; here she might gather together the things that 
 were dear to her, and here she meant to be happy. 
 
 Society still allured her. She plunged into balls 
 and dinners, albeit with something less than the old 
 fervor. It was harder for her to grasp the jerky, 
 disconnected sentences. Sometimes others laughed 
 when she had not caught the joke, and she had such 
 a horror of seeming dull! 
 
 "I am less of a liar," she thought, "than I used 
 to be." Nevertheless, the lies of the past kept 
 tripping her up. 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 One evening she and Richard were riding in the 
 Borghese Gardens. She was almost happy, and felt 
 as though she were closer, dearer to him. Suddenly 
 a woman appeared, on horseback, galloping toward 
 them. By the excessive dwindling of the waist, 
 Fortunata recognized Pearl. Miss Case came ca- 
 vorting up, laughing, the scarf of her hat fluttering 
 out behind her. She shouldered her whip in a mili- 
 tary salute. Her manner was a jeer. 
 
 "Good-morning, Lord Trevers!" she said, ignor- 
 ing Fortunata. 
 
 Lord Trevers bowed with a petrified face. He ' 
 disliked Miss Case. "You have met my wife, I 
 think." 
 
 "Oh, Dick, how can you!" reproved Fortunata. 
 "You've spoiled everything; we were cutting each 
 other." 
 
 Miss Case gave a nasty smile. "I have known 
 your wife longer than you yourself have, Lord 
 Trevers. What funny times we've had together!" 
 She started in to tell of their mutual adventures. 
 She did it artfully, placing Fortunata in the worst 
 light, although never once uttering a hard word. 
 She brought out the Contessina's flirtations, her 
 scandalous gayety, even while she seemed to praise. 
 The wind was high; Fortunata could not hear; 
 nevertheless, she scented danger. She rode up to 
 Lord Trevers and put her hand in his, although 
 even when alone with Richard she rarely offered 
 him a caress. Now she gave him a glance, warm 
 and shy, that spoke of intimacy and happiness. 
 
 Miss Case wheeled, made her horse prance and 
 cavort, then plunged away at a gallop, showing off 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 her figure, so shapely as to be almost indecent. 
 Lord Trevers looked after her with elaborate in- 
 difference. 
 
 "What's the matter with her?" 
 
 "She's jealous." 
 
 "Yes, of course; but why?" 
 
 "We came out the same year and always inter- 
 fered. She was in love with a man to whom I was 
 well, yes, engaged Guasconte, you know." 
 
 "Ah, then, that's true?" 
 
 "Yes; and afterward she wanted to marry 
 Eugenic, but I wouldn't let her." 
 
 "What, she cared for him?" 
 
 "She got over it. She was crazy about you 
 next." 
 
 "She is jealous, then, I dare say." 
 
 Did he forget the innuendoes, the hints of sly 
 meetings and thievish kisses de Brillac and all the 
 others? Fortunata never knew. Once, some time 
 after, he said, "It's queer to think how many men 
 you nearly married." 
 
 The phrase was unlike him it savored of Miss 
 Case's persiflage. 
 
 Again one night, Lord and Lady Trevers were 
 leaving the Costanzi Theatre. In the street the 
 crowd was calling for their carriages. Catching 
 sight of his, Richard hurried Fortunata toward it, 
 but suddenly came up against an old gentleman 
 sidling crab-wise along the curb. Fortunata' s heart 
 bumped. It was Prince Raoul de la Tour Bichelle! 
 He turned grayer, drew off his hat, and bowed. His 
 manner touched her, so humble was it and forlorn. 
 Dick helped her into the coupe, then turned to gaze 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 after the Frenchman with the cold curiosity of youth. 
 Stepping into the carriage, he swung to the door. 
 
 "By Jove! That old ape will outlive us all! 
 Tell me one thing!" His face clouded over with the 
 look she had grown to dread. "How in God's name 
 could you think of marrying him?" 
 
 It was neither just nor logical to bring up her 
 former mistakes. Before their marriage he had 
 known of them he should, then, either have for- 
 gotten Fortunata or forgotten certain episodes in 
 her life. But the Gillespie incident seemed to have 
 brought her past more clearly and vitally before 
 him. Once a man of Richard's nature is possessed 
 with an idea, it holds him till death. He was too 
 proud to question ; he rarely asked for explanations, 
 yet too often Fortunata caught him looking at her, 
 his brows drawn in mute appeal, his eye searching 
 her, as though trying to read her soul; for he loved 
 her, still loved her entirely, and she had failed him. 
 For the first time Fortunata perceived the useless - 
 ness of words. To say, I am sorry, I'll begin over 
 again how unprofitable! To explain, to confess- 
 as well let the wind blow. After all, she and her 
 husband were strangers. They had been shone on 
 by different suns; they spoke different languages; 
 they must ask less one of the other. Nevertheless, 
 they got on genially, like people who long ago have 
 given up trying to make a good impression on each 
 other. 
 
 One night at dinner she was conscious of his eyes 
 fixed on her as though to read her thoughts. When 
 the butler had brought the coffee and was gone, 
 Fortunata saw Richard straighten himself, fling 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 back his head, and look at her intently. He is 
 going to speak now, she thought. She watched his 
 lips, and sharpened every nerve to hear him. Sure 
 enough, he leaned across the table and said to her: 
 
 "Fortunata, I want to ask you something." 
 
 "Yes?" she answered, laying down the cherry 
 she held. 
 
 "It's none of my business, I know, but the thing's 
 got in my head. An idea gets hold of a man some- 
 times, and he can't shake it off. Tell me how you 
 could ever think of marrying that old Frenchman 
 Bichette, or whatever his name is." 
 
 She listened to him patiently, and excused herself 
 a?s best she could. "All my relatives, my friends, 
 thought it was a good match. I could have helped 
 them. They advised me he is very rich you know. ' ' 
 
 "But that would be marrying for money!" he 
 cried, as though it were an unheard-of thing. 
 
 "One must live," she answered, soberly. "A 
 woman, Dick, doesn't earn her livelihood; marriage 
 is her only career." 
 
 "I can't believe that you would do such a thing. 
 You would never sell yourself!" 
 
 "That's not a new point of view. One must bar- 
 gain to keep alive . One gets nothing without paying . ' ' 
 
 He looked at her as though she were some strange 
 monster. ' ' I can't understand you," he said, bitterly. 
 
 She was conscious of having made an awkward 
 answer. It seemed that to Richard she was always 
 lacking in tact. Her want of diplomacy came possi- 
 bly from her new-born desire to be sincere. She 
 started in to defend herself, then suddenly saddened 
 and hung her head. 
 
 18 273
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IT was no use; she could no longer deceive her- 
 self. She must accept the fact that she had 
 ceased to hear as she was born to hear. She was 
 growing deaf. She had known it for several months, 
 and had not dared to give shape to her thought. 
 If she faced so frightful a possibility, she was lost. 
 She remembered to have heard her mother say that 
 this infirmity had come upon her as a young woman, 
 when life still held every promise. 
 
 ' ' My God !" was now Fortunata's constant thought, 
 "I know that you won't desert me like this! I was 
 born to be happy." Yet in her heart was a voice 
 telling her to get together all her endurance, all her 
 courage. She was strangely secretive, had always 
 borne her own burdens. 
 
 The winter went by, yet she could not bring her- 
 self to go to the doctor she was afraid. One night 
 she had a dream. She was in a room full of people. 
 They were all laughing, talking together, or, rather, 
 their lips moved and she heard nothing. Antonia 
 was there, and Eugenio and Richard. They did not 
 seem to know her. They looked through and walked 
 past her, as though she were already dead and for- 
 gotten. To be so cut off inspired her with such 
 loneliness that she awoke sobbing. She sat up in 
 bed, cold with dread, her heart beating in her 
 
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 throat. The darkness was opaque, heavy, crushing. 
 "I'm going deaf!" she said, aloud. She was as cer- 
 tain as though God himself had told her. She lit 
 the light by her bed, took the address-book on her 
 knees, and looked down the line of doctors. She 
 shivered in her thin nightgown ; her hands trembled ; 
 her throat was dry, as though she were dying. 
 Doctor Durini, Via Nazionale 58, Ear and Throat 
 Specialist. A repulsive name! She could sleep no 
 more, and sat up in bed the rest of the night until 
 the east was streaked with red. The servants were 
 moving about the house she knew it, rather than 
 heard it and the heavy, muffled footsteps seemed 
 treading on her heart. 
 
 She breakfasted in her room, as usual, and went 
 out without seeing Richard. The victoria in which 
 she sat bounded lightly along. The fresh air 
 brushed past. The motion soothed her, and she 
 almost forgot the nightmares of the night. It was 
 the feast of San Pancrazio. Bands of music were 
 out marching, of monks, of cantori. The contadini 
 trooped from the villages, their mules gay with rib- 
 bons and bells. There was such a prodigality of sun, 
 in the streets such pryamids of flowers and fruits, 
 such radiance, such a dome of blue sky, as to put to 
 shame a Veronese. In passing the Church of Gesu, 
 Fortunata saw the priests entering, with bowed heads, 
 in sacramental robes as flaming as the fiery angels. 
 
 After the examination, "Of course it isn't serious, 
 Doctor?" she said, brightly, as if to ward off a fright- 
 ful answer. 
 
 "There is deafness in your family?" he asked, as 
 he polished a lens. 
 
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 "Yes, my mother." 
 
 "Ah!" He looked at her, and her heart con- 
 tracted. "Sit down, Signora." 
 
 It seemed the trouble was hereditary, and she 
 could not escape it. He talked of "the middle ear," 
 "the absence of tympanic disease." "The condi- 
 tions of sound may be good," he said, "but the per- 
 ception of sound may be faulty. A nervous affec- 
 tion is apt to follow shocks, and is often hereditary." 
 
 She looked at him as at an executioner. "Why, 
 this means that I am done for!" she stammered; "I 
 might as well be dead." 
 
 He went on to tell her the nature of the disease; 
 its rapid progress; the resultant destruction of the 
 ear-drum. She stretched out her hands to him. 
 
 "Ah, what's the use!" she cried. But he did not 
 spare her. He was at his work diagnosing, sum- 
 ming up her faint chances. She looked down at her 
 hands, clasped in her lap. They seemed to her piti- 
 ful in their dapper dogskin gloves. She was over- 
 come with pity, not so much for herself as for every- 
 thing that hopes. She had worked so hard to be 
 happy, and was come to this! The affirmation, she 
 thought, of so horrible a calamity must wither the 
 features and change the look in the eyes. 
 
 When again safe at home, she drew her chair be- 
 fore the glass to study the ravages in her face, yet 
 found herself much as usual. All at once, quite 
 suddenly, she began to weep. Cruel sobs shook her 
 as though they must wrench her to pieces. She 
 leaned her head on her arm and rolled it from side 
 to side, moaning, "Anything but this! Anything 
 but this!" 
 
 276
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Other calamities she might have accepted without 
 a murmur. To figure as a heroine would have 
 recompensed her for all suffering. An imaginary 
 wasting away with heart-disease had always ap- 
 pealed to her. Even consumption one may endure 
 without a loss of dignity; one may admit it without 
 shame. On a divan one may flicker elegantly away 
 holding a lace handkerchief to the lips, all the life 
 of the body accumulated in the exaggerated eyes. 
 Blindness is a classic calamity large, overwhelm- 
 ing, sublime. Even the unimaginative feel the hor- 
 ror of an eternal night! But to the existence of 
 the deaf the world is pitiless what excuse is there 
 for the hard of hearing, the bawled at ? To be 
 handicapped by so sordid an affliction is like being 
 run over by a wheelbarrow or blinded by the ex- 
 plosion of a bottle of ginger-ale, a calamity without 
 a touch of the sublime. 
 
 To know, to feel, to watch the failing, the decom- 
 position of something essential to happiness; to be 
 given over to these futile sounds in the ears, to these 
 roarings of a cataract, to these chirpings as of a 
 crazy aviary, to these cracks like the creakings of 
 furniture in haunted houses; to have these silly 
 noises shut out of the world, and in the end to be 
 encompassed by a relentless stillness; to lose the 
 glories of music, of stringed instruments and the 
 organ, the genial sounds of the city, the rush of the 
 winds, the roar of the river all the melodies of 
 earth. Never to hear a human voice normally 
 again, nor the voices of little children. Never to 
 interchange ideas, being to being. What loneliness! 
 What a cutting off ! What an exile ! As well be en- 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 cased in the six boards of a coffin, an apprentice to 
 the grave where, too, there is no sound. When the 
 heart knows such bitterness, why will it not give up 
 its industrious beating? 
 
 Fortunata thought of Rover, the dog at Stock-on- 
 Tremp, and she grew sick at heart. 
 
 One morning, as Fortunata awoke, the sun was 
 looking in at her. The foliage of the square Was 
 moving in the breeze, and she thought, The world 
 is too beautiful when you live alone with the creat- 
 ure you love. This life is killing me! 
 
 And to Richard she said: "Let's try the Palazzo 
 Colibri only for a week, a few days. Think how 
 Aunt Prudenzia will snap at the board!" He pro- 
 tested. "It is a den of iniquity," admitted Fortu- 
 nata. "I can't see why I like it. I was never 
 happy there. It must be in the blood!" 
 
 Her word with him was law, and thither they 
 went. 
 
 The Colibri and her household were at luncheon, 
 eating macaroni off the chipped Sevres that Fortu- 
 nata had known in her happy, disreputable days. 
 
 Shaking hands with these people, she had a sense 
 of inexpressible sadness, finality as though saying 
 good-bye to them forever. In the house that had 
 known her without a heart, without a conscience, 
 she hoped to lose the ache at her heart, to be free 
 of horror and the pains of love. "You are grow- 
 ing deaf," said the specialists. "You are growing 
 deaf," said the greatest doctors of the country, and 
 she crept off to see them, guiltily, secretly, as to a 
 love-tryst. 
 
 Fortunata had been taught that a woman's duty, 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 before giving alms, or speaking the truth, or living 
 in honor, was to be elegant and agreeable and charm- 
 ing, and now ! She must fall out of the ranks of 
 the women famous for their wit, for their charm. 
 The deaf are rarely attractive suspicious often, 
 either boring or insignificant. And she had so loved 
 admiration! What shall I now live for? she asked 
 herself to eat three meals a day, to sleep nine or 
 ten hours, and be comfortable. Great God! one 
 has time enough in the grave to be comfortable. 
 
 Then, again, she had days of hope, a sickly thrill- 
 ing hope. It whispered that this was a nightmare 
 which would pass and she would wake safe and 
 sound. She took to praying, urging God to strike 
 a bargain with her promising a change of heart if 
 he would save her. For the first time she realized 
 the sorrow, the pain there is in the world, and she 
 was seized with pity, not only for herself, but for 
 all humanity. 
 
 But she had her moments of revolt also. Her 
 soul asked : Why am I hurt ? Why am I ruined ? 
 Why I more than another? There was Antonia 
 living in sin, and no ill came upon her. There was 
 the Princess, always intent on evil-doing, and harm 
 passed her by. Luigi and Guido led loose lives, yet 
 they were never punished. If God lived, He was 
 not just! But immediately she was afraid of her 
 blasphemy, fearful of more calamity, and fawned 
 on her knees. She could not sleep. She took to 
 trional, vironal, and finally to chloral to break up 
 the horrors of insomnia, yet her face, curiously 
 enough, showed little change. No one guessed her 
 secret, guarded with such jealousy. As yet her in- 
 
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 firmity was not pronounced. If she was spoken to 
 and did not answer, her silence was put down to 
 absence of mind or preoccupation. If she mis- 
 understood, she was quick to remedy her mistake. 
 Richard thought her more silent than of old, less 
 quick to catch one up, more respectful to others' 
 opinions, and he liked her the better for the change. 
 
 She lived at his side, in her heart the torment of 
 the damned, and he thought her happy. Why not ? 
 She smiled like other people. To any one who had 
 known her, it was pitiful to see how humble she was 
 grown with him, how anxious to please. Her heart 
 told her she was losing him. With terror she real- 
 ized that her indifference had been her power to 
 attract. 
 
 At times he tried to tell her what she was to him, 
 repeating himself, short of words yet through his 
 labored talk pierced a regret for his heart's former 
 emptiness, for that easy indifference, rather than 
 these pains of love. 
 
 Strange that never a presentiment had stirred her, 
 never a whisper of coming evil chilled her. The 
 thing that kills comes like that. One turns a cor- 
 ner, and there it is, full-grown at the birth, a mon- 
 ster horror. She had seen this infirmity gaining on 
 her mother; its name had come lightly from her 
 mouth; but never had she thought of the curses of 
 heredity. Others had so loved her, making smooth 
 her life, that she imagined that God himself, who 
 had made her, finding her more charming than 
 his other beings, had kept her for a particular and 
 personal affection, warding off from her the evil to 
 which the flesh is heir. 
 
 280
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 The summer was come. Rome lay inert, ex- 
 hausted by the ardor of the sun. Antonia and Fort- 
 unata sat side by side in the Palazzo garden in the 
 shadow of the cypress. 
 
 "Sorella mia," said the Marchesa, "give a little 
 smile. I hear from Lord Bolton that Ricardo is to 
 be- promoted." 
 
 Fortunata watched her sister's lips. 
 
 "Ah, Antonia, that's it. I had hoped so much 
 for the future. Dick's a new man as to his career. 
 He has grown ambitious, desirous to succeed. We 
 might have been so happy. Oh, God!" 
 
 "Why do you say, 'Oh, God ?' " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "But I know. My little sister, you are unhappy. 
 Something is eating out your heart. Tell me what 
 it is." 
 
 In this sudden glow of affection that had drawn 
 the sisters closer together, Fortunata was tempted 
 to confess her miserable secret, in these pitying arms, 
 however incompetent, to seek a momentary refuge 
 from her sufferings. 
 
 The habit of a lifetime to keep silent on that 
 which concerned her most made it hard for her 
 to speak. 
 
 "Fortunata, I love you dearly. Tell me!" 
 
 But in the momentary hesitation the impulse 
 was gone. The dusk came down like a veil, sweet 
 and damp. The Marchesa passed from the garden. 
 Fortunata remained on into the evening, among the 
 whispers of the night. When, finally, she passed 
 through the dining-room, at the table there was no 
 one save Eugenic, who, before the half-empty wine 
 
 281
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 glasses and crumpled napkins, sat with his head on 
 his hands. At sight of his sister, he sighed like a 
 furnace and let his head sink into his arms. 
 
 "Are you ill?" asked Fortunata. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, Fortunata, I shall never be free again! I 
 shall never be as I used to be. I am lost!" 
 
 "You haven't that ancient La Valliere still on 
 the brain I should say, on the heart?" 
 
 "On the heart, yes. My heart is sore physically 
 sore as though it were rough round the edges. 
 The thought of her has become an obsession.'' 
 
 "But, Eugenio, really she isn't pretty; she has 
 a long, pasty face. She looks like a powdered 
 dromedary." 
 
 "Ah, but did you ever see her smile, Fortunata? 
 Have you ever noticed what peculiar eyes she has ? 
 Even if she were as ugly as a toad, she would be 
 more fatal to me than another Venus. There is no 
 one like her; everything she says and does she 
 makes her own." 
 
 By watching her brother's lips Fortunata had 
 understood him to some extent. Her thoughts had 
 gone back to their treadmill. After all, thought she, 
 Eugenio's sorrow is more decent, more becoming 
 than mine. And her eyes filled with tears, for she 
 was always much affected by herself as an object of 
 pity. 
 
 On retiring that night, Fortunata opened an un- 
 used drawer of her bureau and found a forgotten 
 possession a pistol that had been her father's. It 
 was prettily wrought of black steel, with an open- 
 
 282
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 work handle like lace. It lay there ominous, fu- 
 nereal. She lifted out the revolver and held it in 
 her hands; she looked at the death-giving trigger, 
 and drew her finger down the cold and fatal barrel. 
 Such a trembling seized her that, as she put the 
 pistol into the drawer, the crazy old bureau rattled 
 under her touch.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 IT was Guide's birthday, or, rather, the birthday 
 of the saint after whom he was named, for Guido 
 had had a saint for a godfather, incredible though 
 it may seem. 
 
 It was a dreary night, the rain fell slantwise. In 
 the streets the wind walked alone. The dinner- 
 table was cleared, and books, papers, and em- 
 broideries brought out. An attack of despair had 
 seized Fortunata. She left the room, and from the 
 hall window looked out into the night. The shrubs 
 of the garden writhed and tossed their mad arms. 
 Meanwhile, the Princess, as was the custom at this 
 hour, had retired to exchange her furbelows for 
 a dressing-gown, to shed her debonair curls and 
 draw down over her bristly gray head a skull-cap. 
 After her Excellency had laid aside her daily glories 
 for this severer costume, preparatory for bed, she 
 was supposed to be invisible that is, etiquette re- 
 quired that her relatives ignore her presence. They 
 must neither speak with her nor rise at her entering 
 the room, nor offer her the attention due a woman 
 of her rank and age. Had she seen fit to shoot off 
 a blunderbuss in the midst of them, no one would 
 have dared to dodge. 
 
 To-night, at the customary hour, Nello, candle 
 in hand, drew the portieres and ushered in the 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 Princess. Her ermine dressing-gown, stained yellow 
 with age, she held muffled about her up to the jaws. 
 Her sinister cap was drawn down to her brows, and 
 her big white face wore an evil look. Forgetting 
 that she was invisible, she beckoned Dacampagna 
 to her. 
 
 "Guido," said she, in a strange voice, shrill with 
 asthma, "this is my birthday present." Her hand 
 disappeared into a secret pocket and drew forth a 
 package of letters. "Read these," said she; "you 
 will sleep the better." 
 
 He took them to the light, unfolded them, smooth- 
 ed out their creases. The leaves rustled ominously. 
 The Princess's asthma was very strident. From the 
 room's far side, where Antonia was reading, came 
 a faint, tremulous sigh. Slowly, painstakingly, 
 Guido read on. All at once his glance moved to one 
 side of the letter, and remained fixed, down-staring. 
 His expression was of embarrassment that of a 
 person who feels that he is called on to appear high- 
 ly mystified, highly indignant, and hardly knows 
 how to set about it. 
 
 "Why," he said, uncertainly, turning toward the 
 Princess, "this is Luigi's writing, and his name is 
 signed!" 
 
 "Benissimo!" called Don Luigi, coming eagerly 
 forward. " Those letters are mine ; I admit it. I'll 
 thank you for them. They can't possibly interest 
 you, and besides " 
 
 "To whom are they?" asked Guido, distrustfully, 
 putting his fist down like a paper-weight on the 
 scattered sheets. 
 
 "To a lady; some one you never knew. No con- 
 285
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 cern of yours, Guido, though I'll tell you it's no 
 secret they are to a woman Luigi rambled on 
 "a woman I once met " 
 
 "To a woman!" snorted the Princess. "I never 
 suspected anything else!" And she hugged her 
 dressing-gown about her in a nervous transport. 
 
 Dacampagna's jaws dropped. He looked at sea. 
 "What does this mean, Excellency?" 
 
 "Per San Pedro, you're imbecile, Guido!" the 
 Princess shouted. 
 
 The Marchesa Dacampagna came to her husband. 
 "Guido," she said, in a minor key, "her Excellency 
 wishes you to understand that those letters, or so 
 she thinks, were written to me." 
 
 Guido gave an inarticulate cry and sprang to his 
 feet. His chair fell backward. "Per Dio, Antonia, 
 if I " He raised his hand threateningly. 
 
 His brother caught his wrist. "Be careful!" 
 warned Luigi. 
 
 As an outraged husband Dacampagna was a 
 failure. His coat-tails were crumpled ; he was short 
 of breath, and that was all. 
 
 Luigi released his brother's arm, went to the fire, 
 turned his back to it, warmed the sole of each shoe 
 alternately, sucked a toothpick after the pleasing 
 Continental fashion, and smiled very sweetly. 
 
 "Isn't it too bad!" said Guido, forlornly, turning 
 to the Princess. "Here I have been feeding and 
 dressing these two some one find a name for me 
 to call them. Oh, God!" he cried, in a sudden burst 
 of fury, "these two have been eating up all my 
 money! Look at this man. He's lived on me, act- 
 ually lived on me. He owes me the very shoes on 
 
 286
 
 his feet. Why, he'd be starving in the streets if it 
 weren't for me. See that woman over there she's 
 a bloodsucker, a leech. For God's sake, Antonia, 
 speak! What have you got to say!" 
 
 "Nothing " indifferently, as though the word 
 were hardly worth the speaking. 
 
 "Nothing, Marchesa?" Luigi interposed. "Sure- 
 ly you won't let such an accusation pass. Letters 
 you never even saw why, it's folly, madness ! Swear 
 on your conscience, swear by all the saints!" 
 
 "I shall not raise my hand to justify myself." 
 And she stood looking at Luigi as though in his eyes 
 she marked a new expression. 
 
 "Raise your hands, indeed!" grunted the Princess, 
 who wanted to be noticed. "Raise your hands, or 
 raise your feet. You'll have to raise yourself before 
 you are clear of this. Do not go, Lord Trevers," 
 she added, turning to Richard, who, at the first 
 sight of an Italian squabble, had tried to dodge past 
 her and get through the door. "A scandal has been 
 going on in my house, and I have seemed to shelter 
 it. I ask you, Lord Trevers, to witness my horror, 
 my disgust " 
 
 "Pardon me, Princess," said Dick, looking very 
 uncomfortable, "but this is no business of mine, 
 and if you will let me pass " 
 
 The Princess ended the discussion by planting 
 herself in the doorway, a hand on each side, her 
 camphor-scented dressing-gown blocking all egress. 
 
 "Guido," said she, "your wife kept those letters 
 in a japanned box, in the lower drawer of the ward- 
 robe, in her bedroom. I was looking there one day 
 I forget for what and I found them. She is so 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 careless, the box wasn't even locked. She wears 
 the key on a chain around her neck with her cross 
 and her scapular. She wears it on her heart, Guido, 
 with her scapular and the cross of God." 
 
 "Antonia!" her husband cried, "where's your blue 
 blood and your fine ancestors you've talked and 
 talked to me about ? They didn't keep you straight. 
 Look here, all you people you Excellency, you 
 Trevers, you Eugenio you've seen and you've had 
 your laugh. But wait, for, so help me God ! I will 
 be even with her yet. She shall pay; I'll make her 
 suffer as much as a woman can ; I'll drag her in the 
 dirt; she sha'n't hold up her head again. As for 
 you " turning on his brother, with an oath. 
 
 Antonia interposed: "I have something here," 
 striking her breast, "and it has been here for years, 
 and it will come out. Guido, do you remember our 
 first year together? How I cried, how homesick I 
 was for what I had been, how unhappy you made me ? 
 Why ? Because I was your wife ? That is no excuse. 
 You had one set of rules for yourself and another 
 for me. Your rules were lax, and mine everything 
 that was hard. You didn't even pretend to love 
 me; then why should I love you? You lied to me; 
 then why shouldn't I lie? You deceived me; then 
 why shouldn't I deceive you ? You were selfish, and 
 brutal, and neglectful why? Because I was a 
 woman. That is no answer. Haven't I my right to 
 happiness?" Her voice rose in a cry. "Happiness, 
 that is what we all work for. Ought I just to have sat 
 down, and given up, and held my breath and died?" 
 
 Guido was a bully, and as she blazed and paled 
 with anger he grew servile. 
 
 288
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "I don't understand!" he faltered. 
 
 "No, you never have." She spoke monotonously, 
 with a sudden relapse to her inattentive manner. 
 
 "There," shouted the Princess, who could not 
 keep still, "there, that is what annoys me so in 
 Antonia always thefemme incomprise, always pos- 
 ing as unappreciated. I wonder, Luigi, that you have 
 been able to put up so long with her affectations. 
 To hear her talk one would think she was the only 
 woman who had ever had a drunken cad for a hus- 
 band. In fact, the only woman who ever had a 
 husband at all." 
 
 "I will have your blood, Luigi!" stormed Guido. 
 "You shall fight me for this." 
 
 "Marchese," said Luigi, striking an attitude, "I 
 insist on nothing less." 
 
 "I shall be your second, Don Luigi," volunteered 
 Eugenio. 
 
 "One thing only I regret, Guido," said his brother, 
 "you question the honor of a lady as pure as one of 
 the saints in heaven and as holy as the Madonna." 
 
 The Colibri was vexed. "As pure as one of the 
 saints, indeed!" sniffed she, peevishly. "There was 
 a Saint Mary Magdalene, so I have been told." 
 
 Like a feeble she-goat on the outskirts of a fray 
 among her kind, and looking on bleating and agi- 
 tated, thus stood Billford, disregarded. 
 
 "Never, never," cried the kind old lady, trying 
 to do her little bit of good, "can I believe anything 
 that is not highly to the credit, highly laudatory of 
 this excellent, this admirable gentlewoman!" 
 
 The Princess Colibri gathered her dressing-gown 
 about her, came shuffling to the lamplight and stood 
 19 289
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 beside the table, looking down on the letters with a 
 sly, evil smile. There they lay, poor crumpled papers, 
 litanies of love ! ' ' You are my life, I cannot live with- 
 out you I love you so " stale phrases traced in pale 
 ink, yet written with what rendings of the heart! 
 
 "'My heart's desire, lodestar of my existence!" 1 
 read the Princess. "Pretty names, but not original." 
 And she smoothed the leaves with her soft, moist- 
 looking hands. 
 
 A trembling passed over Antonia, a shudder. 
 Guido came and gathered up the letters and laid 
 them together the poor, accusing papers, from age 
 and much reading, were falling to pieces. Antonia 
 held her hands over them as though to protect them. 
 The Princess Colibri drew in her head like that of a 
 snake about to strike her low, flat skull, her small, 
 evil eyes, her cheeks hanging in paunches, her gray, 
 dead-tinted flesh, suggested the head of an old 
 flabby cobra. 
 
 "You common drab!" she hissed, transported by 
 a crazy rage. "I am sick of your airs and your 
 religious cant, and your fine feeling. What are you, 
 anyhow? Nothing but an adulteress, for all your 
 church-goings. What is the good of your saints and 
 your host of angels? For the last four years have 
 they been asleep or looking another way? Isn't it 
 an ugly picture ? A woman, faint with the kisses of 
 her husband's brother, goes to praise God, lets her 
 knees grow to the paving-stones, doubles up her 
 obsequious back 'Mea culpa, mea multa culpa!' 
 You hypocrite!" 
 
 "Yes, you hypocrite!" Guido burst out. "Why, 
 Excellency, I have seen her " 
 
 290
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Hush, Guido, hush!" soothed the Princess, as- 
 suming a decorous manner. "We must be fair; we 
 must be just. Antonia has not defended herself. 
 Antonia has not spoken yet. Marchesa, Saint Peter, 
 if you remember, denied his Master and his Lord. 
 He said, ' I do not know the man.' Are you braver 
 than the apostle? Your love to you is sacred; I 
 have heard you say so. Come, now, a direct answer 
 are these letters yours yes or no?" 
 
 It was at this moment that Fortunata, restless 
 and hag-ridden, drew back the portiere; her face, 
 against the dark hanging, and above the collar of 
 her black dress, seemed as wistful as that of a child. 
 What she saw arrested her. She stood still, her 
 hand on the door-frame. The Princess Colibri's back 
 was turned, but if ever a back told of evil tempers, 
 malignant rage, venom, it was her Excellency's spite- 
 ful shoulders. Antonia faced her aunt, her hands 
 crossed on her chest. She looked very grave and 
 pale. Guido sat humped up, a glowering look on 
 his red, sulky face. Across the back of a chair 
 hung a creased ribbon. At sight of it Fortunata 
 realized the meaning of this scene, and what it was 
 that Antonia held so carefully. Reasonless impulse 
 took possession of her. She asked, "Antonia, what 
 are you doing with my letters?" 
 
 The Princess turned about with a loud, brutal 
 laugh, and stared at Fortunata offensively. An- 
 tonia merely clasped her hands the closer, as though 
 to protect a possession, long lost, refound, and in- 
 finitely prized. Guido looked round, his mouth 
 hanging open; and Fortunata's mother, in a dark 
 corner, working desperately at her socks and drop- 
 
 291
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ping her stitches, held out her knitting-needles, as 
 though to ward off a blow. "Pray, Fortunata," she 
 pleaded, "say they're not yours! It seems they are 
 not nice letters at all." 
 
 "May I presume to ask, Lady Trevers," said the 
 Princess, assuming a prodigiously fine manner, ' ' the 
 wherefore of this astonishing comedy ? Believe me, 
 the part you affect is worn out, stale. The r61e of 
 self-sacrifice is not in your repertoire; you act it 
 badly, and appear very foolish." 
 
 "Don Luigi," said Fortunata, calmly, "perhaps 
 you can convince her Excellency." 
 
 "Don Luigi," sneered the Princess, "has neat 
 ankles and can dance the cancan well, or so I am 
 told; but as to being a truthful, an honorable 
 gentleman " 
 
 "He's a liar! He's a scoundrel!" bawled Guido. 
 
 Luigi went across to Antonia. "Marchesa, will 
 you let me have the letters?" 
 
 Without a word she gave him both her hands. 
 
 "You have seen, Princess, and you, Guido," Don 
 Luigi said, not without dignity, "that these letters 
 are in no way compromising when written to a 
 young girl free to marry. They are, as you must 
 have noted, Excellency, and you again, Guido, noth- 
 ing but the expression of a very deep love I have 
 known for Signorina Rivallo if I may say so with- 
 out offence to Lady Trevers a profound and unan- 
 swered affection." 
 
 "Who shall ever account for taste?" his voice 
 seemed to say. Resigned, he bowed a head as brown 
 and glossy as a seal's. After a pause, with one of 
 his sad and tender smiles: "These letters are of no 
 
 292
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 value to Lady Trevers; they have no literary merit, 
 and so" He opened his handsome hands over the 
 fire. The papers fluttered down into the flames. 
 Antonia gave a cry of reproach. The pages with- 
 ered, blackened, fell in ashes. She watched them 
 burn with a pale and crazy face. 
 
 "Your admission is spontaneous, Luigi, circum* 
 stantial," sneered the Princess. "Your letters are 
 to Fortunata good, yet I find them in the pos- 
 session of Antonia. How do you explain that?" 
 
 "Yes, how do you explain that?" bellowed Guido. 
 
 "Her Excellency is confused, has forgotten. Her 
 Excellency is truth itself," audaciously interposed 
 Fortunata ; ' ' she is incapable of an unworthy action, 
 as we all know. Besides, she loves Antonia. There 
 is a mistake, a trifling matter, that is all. Those 
 letters were " 
 
 "In a japanned box," roared Dacampagna, "in 
 Antonia' s bureau drawer." 
 
 "I have a japanned box," said Lady Trevers, 
 blandly. "I have a lower drawer." 
 
 "They think you are a fool, my poor Dacam- 
 pagna," sighed the Princess. 
 
 "I can convince you, Guido!" cried Fortunata. 
 "Question Francesca. She is a truthful child." 
 
 "Francesca, where is Francesca? Some one call 
 Francesca!" and around spun Guido, as though on 
 a pivot. 
 
 "Will you bring her here, Miss Billford?" asked 
 Fortunata; "or you go, Eugenio?" 
 
 "Don't stir, Eugenio!" countermanded the Prin- 
 cess. "Billford, don't move! Sit down, you silly 
 old thing! They are capable of teaching the child 
 
 293
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 her answer. Go yourself, Guido, and bring Fran- 
 cesca back." 
 
 He went, making a great noise with his feet, as 
 always when watched or of importance. Scowling, 
 he passed his wife; flinching, he skirted around his 
 brother. Brutally kicking the portiere, he stamped 
 away. They heard him tumbling about in the dark, 
 hitting his shins, striking matches, and swearing. 
 Don Luigi took out a pocket -comb, combed his 
 gallant mustache, curled it up into his eyes, and 
 stared over it at the Princess in a spirited fashion. 
 
 "For shame!" cried he. "What harm has the 
 Marchesa done you, Princess ? Antonia, the Colibri 
 can't forgive you for being young and beautiful, for 
 being kind and infinitely loved. Come, come away 
 from this house, where you bear ingratitude, sus- 
 picion, insult!" 
 
 Antonia's looks, her thoughts, were still with the 
 ashes, and all she said was, "Why, Luigi, why burn 
 them?" 
 
 "Tee-hee!" tittered the Princess, with a wheezing 
 in her chest; "how fond Antonia seems of Fortu- 
 nata's letters!" 
 
 Guido came plunging back, his red face and burly 
 jaw glowering in the doorway. By the shoulder he 
 thrust in the bewildered Francesca, in pitiful dis- 
 hevelment. A comb she held in one hand, and in 
 the other the rat or stuffing of her pompadour. The 
 poor child, unused to being so pushed into promi- 
 nence, gave strange, ingratiating nods and skips. 
 
 Fortunata drew her sister to her with a gesture 
 of protection and tenderness. 
 
 "Come, carissima, tell her Excellency and An- 
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 tonia of a certain talk you once overheard between 
 Don Luigi and myself. Show them how long you 
 have kept a secret." 
 
 The Colibri, in her arm-chair, sat crumpled up, 
 lost in sinister thoughts, in ugly reveries, looking, 
 for all the world, in her skull-cap and fur dressing- 
 gown, like that baleful king of France, Louis XI. 
 
 "Everything?" whispered Francesca, in trepida- 
 tion, pointing to her aunt with her comb. 
 
 ' ' Everything, carissima. ' ' 
 
 "Why, you see, it was this way," the witness be- 
 gan, in a panicky voice, like some one standing too 
 close to the telephone. "It was three years ago. 
 Yes, I know it was. I'll tell you why, because I left 
 off my boneless waists just before. It was in Au- 
 gust. You see, I went into corsets on the twenty- 
 seventh of July, and it was on a Monday " 
 
 "I can't hear a word she says with that piece of 
 hair in her mouth," interrupted the Princess. 
 
 "It was on a Monday at least no it was 
 either on a Wednesday or a Sunday, for the chimes 
 were ringing, though, of course, it might have been 
 a feast-day. Mother, don't look at me like that! 
 I know my hair is awful. I can't help it. Now, let 
 me go on. Where was I? Well, anyhow, it was 
 early in the morning. My boots, I remember, were 
 stained with dew. I had on brown boots " 
 
 "Skip that!" snapped the Princess. 
 
 "Well, you see, I was standing here" pointing 
 with the rat "and the hedge was here " 
 
 "Skip that," said the Princess. 
 
 "If I skip everything," demurred Francesca, "I 
 sha'n't have anything to tell about." A wisp of 
 
 295
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 hair fell over her face. She seemed veiled and unin- 
 telligent. 
 
 "There, dear!" cheered Fortunata, catching up 
 the hair. "Now, then, what happened?" 
 
 "Why," pursued the orator, "he said to her, this 
 way, quite sudden, with a bow like this (laying her 
 rat on her chest), 'Fortunata,' said he, 'will you 
 marry me?" 1 
 
 "And she answered him?" 
 
 All turned toward the sound. Antonia it was 
 who had spoken. Great drops of sweat hung on 
 her brow; in one hand she squeezed a dry handker- 
 chief. 
 
 "She didn't answer him nothing. I mean, she 
 did not answer him one single thing." 
 
 "Guido, be ashamed and ask Antonia to forgive 
 you," said Fortunata. 
 
 "Innocence is never long obscured," cried grate- 
 ful Billford, and clasped her devout hands in the 
 corner. 
 
 Dacampagna blustered and fumed and looked un- 
 commonly foolish. 
 
 "Why, Fortunata," he stammered, watching the 
 Princess, "he doesn't call you by name. He doesn't 
 mention any name in his slobbering, rubbishy letters." 
 
 ' ' My dearest, my darling, my beautiful ' are the 
 words he uses, and I think I hope without con- 
 ceit that they apply to me quite as well as to 
 Antonia." 
 
 "What does this prove, Guido?" grinned the 
 Princess, over her ermine collar. ' ' One sister is not 
 enough for your ambitious brother, he must have 
 the two." 
 
 296
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Ltrigi expostulated, though secretly flattered. 
 
 Antonia was no longer with the wranglers. She 
 had forgotten the Princess, the envy and unkind- 
 ness; standing motionless, regretful, she had for- 
 gotten the bully and her innocent lover. Her heart 
 said: "I have lived on an illusion and been fed on 
 nothing. See the flimsy, scattered ashes!" Eugenio 
 came to her and gave her his scented handkerchief 
 the prettiest thing imaginable and took her by the 
 hand and led her to the door. She went with him 
 patiently, feeling her way as though suddenly struck 
 blind. 
 
 "Injured innocence walks very humbly," growled 
 the Princess, nudging Guido. "Dacampagna, be 
 advised: no woman, maligned and justly indignant, 
 looks like that. No, no, jealousy of Fortunata and 
 heartbreak make her so pale. Marchesa," called 
 her Excellency, "a word with you!" 
 
 Antonia lifted up her ghastly head. "I am 
 listening." 
 
 "You leave my house to-morrow, you and your 
 lover and your husband. No more shadows in my 
 halls at night, no more stealthy footsteps. My 
 palace is not big enough to hold us both." 
 
 "Here, or elsewhere, the world to me is the same," 
 said Antonia, looking up. "Give me patience!" 
 
 "Invoke the ceiling, Marchesa. Call on the chan- 
 delier. God himself knows the tenderness you've 
 wasted, the love you've thrown away, the lost be- 
 lief, the precious illusion. Titania was enamoured of 
 an ass; Pygmalion, of a stone; there was a lady 
 loved a swine ; you have heard the old English song ?'' 
 
 "I have an anchor and a sure refuge. In the dark 
 297
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 and troubled hour, Heaven is my help," replied 
 Antonia. 
 
 "My wife is a good Catholic and a good woman," 
 mumbled Dacampagna, who had had a change of 
 heart. "She will be even with you yet, Princess, 
 for abusing her so." And he kept up an ambushed 
 fire from behind Antonia, near the door. "The Coli- 
 bri owes me four thousand lire!" he bawled; "and 
 by the Almighty, she shall pay! If not in money, 
 then in board, for I shall sit in the house until she 
 does. She'll treat my poor wife badly, ^will she? 
 Well, I'll be even with her yet. I'm not afraid of 
 the Colibri; no, nor of any other hag." 
 
 "Begone out of my house; all of you! I'm sick 
 of you all of the sight of your tiresome faces. Get 
 out begone!" The Princess flapped her angry 
 arms. On her throat the veins bulged out like 
 angleworms. Before that fury Guido shrank into 
 the hall. Luigi held high the portiere, and through 
 the doorway paced Antonia with the lost look of 
 a somnambulist. Next, the Contessa scurried away ; 
 Francesca in her mother's steps; Miss Billford on 
 Francesca's heels all three laden with parapher- 
 nalia, and urging one another to flight. 
 
 "It wasn't fair to interfere in Antonia's affairs," 
 reproved Eugenic, as he passed his sister, and he, 
 too, went out. Only the Colibri and Fortunata 
 remained, and Fortunata's tall husband. Lighting 
 a candle, the Princess looked across the flame at 
 her niece; wavering shadows spread over her Ex- 
 cellency's sly, soft-featured face. Her eyes, semi- 
 closed and shining, recalled the gaze of the com- 
 pelling Buddha. 
 
 298
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Surely, Fortunata, I have always been your 
 friend! When have I ever failed you? The older 
 I grow, the more I find that to love no one is the 
 only freedom. Then, at least, one is immune. In- 
 gratitude cannot hurt." There were tears beneath 
 the evil lids, tears of vexation, of wounded trust. 
 The eyes shrank, like those of a serpent; the cheeks 
 twitched. Fortunata was shocked, as at an in- 
 decency, and looked down. She wished to be for- 
 given, yet knew not what to say. The Princess 
 passed into the hall, padding in her bedroom slip- 
 pers; yet unable to forbear a final prod, she thrust 
 into the room her malevolent head. "I pity you, 
 Lord Trevers. You think to have a wife, and are 
 bound to a monster in a woman's body, a fiend of 
 ingratitude, of vanity, of lying, of dissimulation." 
 Her Excellency's asthma, the crackings in her 
 chest, choked her. She let fall the portiere. They 
 heard her shuffling away.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 IT was the Feast of San Giovanni and midnight. 
 The bells of the Church of Gesu set up of a sud- 
 den a mighty clanging, a summoning to mass. From 
 the basement of the palace somewhere, and all at 
 once two voices sang out in pleasant concord "La 
 Bell' Arnica" Guido and Luigi. They had kissed 
 on both cheeks and made up, and cried, perhaps, 
 and were firm friends again. 
 
 " ' She gave me a glance, a side glance, 
 And I burn, I perish like a flame.' " 
 
 Guide's bass made a fine second to Luigi's soar- 
 ing tenor, and they finished with all manner of 
 trills. 
 
 Fortunata seated herself. Her chair had been 
 a monk's stall. It was carved in devils and obscene 
 monsters. A smile, faint, elusive, flitted across her 
 face. Lord Trevers stood in the embrasure of the 
 window, mute, seeming very broad and big in the 
 narrow Venetian archway. He came forward into 
 the lamplight and looked intently at his wife, with 
 an expression unfamiliar to her an expression at 
 once critical and sad as one might study a stranger 
 whose features resembled an unforgotten face, 
 evoked melancholy remembrances. 
 
 "Of what are you thinking?" she asked, uneasily. 
 300
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 He was thinking that this pale, young woman be- 
 fore him recalled a certain girl whom he had once 
 watched dance at a ball, in a very scanty bodice. 
 He was thinking that this pretty, elusive creature 
 did not always speak the truth. Yet all he said 
 was, "Fortunata! how could you deceive me as you 
 did about the Bishop?" 
 
 "Ah, Richard!" she burst out in unfeigned de- 
 spair, "must I always hear about that Bishop?" 
 
 "It is no use, I can't fool myself. I've tried and 
 tried, yet always the doubt comes back, over and 
 over again." 
 
 She had not heard all he said, but from his ex- 
 pression she saw that he was unhappy. She took 
 fright. 
 
 "Richard, you don't think for a moment that 
 those letters are mine?" 
 
 "You said they were." 
 
 "Why, Dick, you know the story; all Rome knows 
 it. How can you imagine " 
 
 "Then you told a lie?" 
 
 "To help my sister, yes." 
 
 "You always have a good motive!" he cried, 
 with a bitterness of which she had thought him in- 
 capable. "Is your reputation nothing to you? 
 Remember, your name is not your own, but mine." 
 
 "Any name I bear," proudly from Fortunata, 
 "can never be the worse." 
 
 "What was all that about this common cad and 
 his proposing to you? Do you deny it?" 
 
 "I did not understand what you asked me, but 
 I deny nothing, and am ashamed of nothing I have 
 ever done." 
 
 301
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Did he propose to you?" 
 
 "Yes, he asked me to marry him." 
 
 "To think of your letting that Jackanapes tell 
 you that he loved you! Oh, Fortunata! When I 
 think of the men that you've danced with and 
 laughed with and looked at with your eyes! What 
 did that Italian ass say to you in those letters?" 
 
 "Richard, those letters are not mine, and you 
 know it." 
 
 "What am I to think? What am I to believe?" 
 
 "What did you ask me?" 
 
 "You fooled me once over a little, petty thing. 
 Then why not again?" 
 
 Her life long she had been very eloquent, uphold- 
 ing false statements and justifying herself by lies. 
 Now she found that truth has not the convincing 
 voice the moralists would have us believe. 
 
 "I wish you could see my heart and read it!" she 
 cried, flinging back her arms. The gesture showed 
 her pretty shoulders. She tilted up her tantalizing 
 chin. "Don't you believe me?" she asked, with a 
 kind of breathless tenderness. 
 
 Richard inflated his chest, a Solomon come to 
 judgment. His young face took on a stern, hard 
 look. 
 
 "If those letters are not yours, Fortunata, then 
 you have a habit of falsehood, for you claimed them 
 without hesitation, so naturally, so well." 
 
 She sat there, looking lost, no longer her brave, 
 supercilious self. 
 
 "You are cruel; you are unkind!" she faltered. 
 
 He dropped his pompous airs. "Unkind ? cruel to 
 you, Fortunata? Ah, my dear," he cried, with a 
 
 302
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 sort of despairing tenderness, "no one can ever love 
 you as I do! It's not natural to worship any one 
 as I worship you. I can't cure myself, although I 
 know that you don't love me." 
 
 "Richard!" she protested. 
 
 "No, no, Fortunata, you don't love me. You 
 never have loved me. It was as I watched An- 
 tonia, though I haven't any taste for that foreign, 
 tantrumy kind of affection, that I knew where I 
 stood with you. Trifles came back to me, things 
 that I'd forgotten. I am nothing to her, I thought. 
 It was as though I had had a slap in the face." 
 
 Richard w r as jealous; she should have soothed him 
 and w T on him again. For once she did not move 
 nor speak. A lassitude, a paralyzing weariness, had 
 come over her. Now when she could have spoken 
 the truth and made him love her forever, she turned 
 away her face from him without a word. 
 
 Her averted cheek showed its loveliest curves; 
 her lashes lay in the blue hollows under her eyes. 
 Trevers could not look away from her. 
 
 "You are very pretty," he said. "That must be 
 why I love you." 
 
 His voice was low, and she had ngt understood 
 him. She was silent and hung her head. She 
 could not bring herself to admit that she had not 
 heard. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke 
 again his voice was loud, dogmatic. 
 
 "I have been taught that right is right and that 
 wrong is wrong. I don't understand playing with 
 the truth. A woman who tells a lie, even to save 
 her sister's honor, is not the woman for me. Good- 
 night," he said, suddenly. 
 
 303
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Good -night. You are hard and unmagnani- 
 mous; but you are not free of me yet. I will make 
 you love me as you have never loved me before." 
 
 "It is not in love for you that I am lacking, 
 Fortunata," he answered, very pale. 
 
 "In charity, then, Richard. Good-night." And 
 she made him a queer little bow, like a well-mannered 
 child. 
 
 Next morning, on her way to the colazione, in the 
 hall, Fortunata met Dacampagna, redolent of money, 
 of barolo, of ill-humor, calling on the servants to 
 bring down the luggage. 
 
 "Ah, here comes the pretty Signora, who claims 
 her love-letters at the last moment, after my poor 
 wife has borne the brunt of the suspicion." And 
 he posted himself at the foot of the stairs with the 
 familiar reddening of the forehead. 
 
 Fortunata, angry at sight of him, felt not the 
 faintest fear. "Let me pass!" she said. 
 
 "Just a few words, Signora. Christo! I could 
 laugh, though it's a sour joke, to think how four 
 years ago you fooled me. One couldn't kiss the 
 ends of your fingers, and to think that all that time 
 Luigi-" 
 
 "Let me pass!" 
 
 "Though I always suspected that divine mouth 
 knew how to kiss." 
 
 "Guido, get out of my way!" 
 
 "Not until I taste what Brother Luigi has so often 
 had." 
 
 "Guido!" 
 
 Dacampagna heard and started, guiltily. 
 
 Antonia was dragging herself down the stairs, as 
 304
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 though broken in pieces, trailing after her the 
 travelling cloak that she lacked the strength to 
 carry. 
 
 "Go!" she said, without even looking at her hus- 
 band, "and get the trunks together. I will be with 
 you soon." 
 
 He came forward, offering to take her cloak. She 
 waved him away, unable to tolerate his nearness. 
 "Go! I have to talk with my sister." 
 Immediately he was all cock-a-hoop, like a dog 
 that has been whipped. 
 
 "As you wish, carissima. Everything shall be 
 ready." Passing Fortunata he muttered an un- 
 repeatable adjective. She turned pale, then red, 
 nauseated with anger. 
 
 When he was gone, she said: "Claiming those 
 letters, Antonia, has made every one turn against 
 me. You owe me thanks." 
 
 "Thanks? For what? To you, Fortunata?" 
 "Antonia, why do you look at me like that ?" 
 "You ask in earnest? Because, Fortunata, for 
 four years you have deceived me. You have pre- 
 tended to love me, and all the time have been plot- 
 ting to take away from me that which is dearest to 
 me in the world. Oh, that I should have believed 
 in that hypocritical face! I saw you false to every 
 one. Why should you make an exception of me? 
 It's your deceit, your loathsome deceit, that sickens 
 me. Last night, when you claimed my letters, I 
 saw how easy it was for you to tell a lie." 
 "Then this is the way you take a sacrifice?" 
 "Sacrifice? Had it been a sacrifice you never 
 would have made it." 
 20
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "There is some truth in that," said Fortunata, 
 who was essentially broad-minded. 
 
 "You bring misfortune, Fortunata. By the 
 saints! You have an evil eye. Think of the men 
 who have loved you Quesconti, Monte Varchi, 
 de la Tour Bichelle, de Brillac. How have you 
 repaid them?" 
 
 "Certainly not as you repay your lovers." 
 
 "It's your vanity, your unappeasable vanity, that 
 makes you such a scourge. You must be conquer- 
 ing, taking away from others, destroying. God is 
 just, and in His own time He punishes. Only 
 through your pride can He touch you, and there will 
 He strike." The Marchesa's voice was loud and 
 vibrant. Fortunata understood her. 
 
 "Antonia, if you knew what I know, you might 
 believe that I am already suffering under the Divine 
 displeasure." 
 
 "Oh, you have done me an irretrievable wrong! 
 You were the cause, you knew, yet you never warned 
 me. Now my eyes are opened great God, through 
 what suffering! It is ended; or rather and this 
 is what makes it so sad, so pitiful nothing has ever 
 been. I shall never see him again, never, and God 
 must give me the strength." 
 
 "You call a great deal on God, Antonia. Why 
 not ask Him for a little gratitude?" 
 
 "Gratitude to you who have brought me to the 
 dust?" 
 
 "You are unjust! I have saved you and rein- 
 stated you in what you were in fear of losing." 
 
 "Saved me from what? All the world knows I 
 am I was Luigi's mistress." 
 
 306
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Yes, and all the world is so contemptible that 
 as long as Guido seemed to sanction your actions 
 you might do as you chose; nothing mattered. 
 But were Guido blind no longer, you know his 
 nature, he would bluster and threaten; he would 
 shout your story from the housetops. Where would 
 you stand then? You would lose everything!" 
 
 "I have lost everything. My world crumbles. 
 By Holy Mary! Fortunata, I can't get over your 
 officiousness. How dare you appropriate my let- 
 ters! Those letters were written to me, and were 
 for me only! They at least were mine." 
 
 Fortunata, who had been intently watching her 
 sister's lips, answered, "You should have told 
 Guido so." 
 
 "You may tell him yourself. I do not care." 
 
 "Antonia, what I offer is to be kept. I am not 
 a Spanish giver." And she turned away. Be good 
 and you will be happy, she thought. That was said 
 by some one who surely never had the chance to be 
 bad. Here I have done my life's best action, and 
 what unthankfulness, what ingratitude! 
 
 Turning the corner, Fortunata came upon her 
 brother, who, in a frock-coat, an elaborate waist- 
 coat, and more heavily scented than the tuberose, 
 was polishing his hat on his sleeve. 
 
 "Ah, Fortunata," cried he, taking her hands, 
 "wish me joy! It's the day of my life. The world 
 begins for me." 
 
 She did not understand, did not hear him, but 
 smiled on him as he leaned against the balustrade, 
 gesticulating and shaking his hair into his eyes. 
 
 "She says she'll go with me. By the Madonna, 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 asked me herself! It is to Tivoli we're driving. I 
 shall drive her coach. I am a little unsteady, as 
 you see been celebrating. If I am run over on 
 the way it's just my luck, for life is very sweet." 
 
 She put her hand on his shoulder. "Eugenic, 
 that woman is as silly as she is wicked. She means 
 you no good. If she makes you happy for a minute, 
 the rest of the time you are more wretched than the 
 damned." 
 
 "She's fatal to me!" sighed Eugenic, holding on 
 to the stair-rail. 
 
 "Come with me to England, my brother. I'll find 
 you a wife, rich and pretty too." 
 
 "Northern women don't appeal to me," he said, 
 putting on his hat, as he made a line for the stairs. 
 "The best face in England can't make me forget a 
 certain face in Italy." And he ran down the stairs, 
 repeating poetry, and tumbling over himself. 
 
 "He is happy," thought Fortunata, "but vino 
 rosso can't console every one."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 FROM her maid Fortunata had heard of a priest 
 who, through a holy relic, worked miracles, 
 cured the sick, granted prayers. He was a young 
 man, it seems, of the hamlet of Posilippo, close to 
 Rome. His village was transported by his eloquence 
 and prophecies. Hortense, Fortunata's maid, was 
 sceptical with regard to religious matters; yet the 
 man's charity she had heard was boundless. She 
 told of miraculous cures he was believed to have 
 achieved by the help of God. Fortunata listened, 
 and half the night she could not sleep for thinking 
 what joy the casting away of a mortal infirmity 
 must inspire. 
 
 The dawn found Fortunata sleepless, feverish, 
 possessed of an audacious hope. A true Italian at 
 heart, she was credulous, superstitious. She meant 
 now to exhibit her faith. The irate Deity must be 
 appeased. He must work in her behalf a miracle to 
 prove His strength, His bounty. Her days would 
 slip back into their pleasant tenor, the horror would 
 vanish, as a ghost before the eyelids of the morning. 
 
 She sprang from bed and flung the shutters wide. 
 Parallel with her gaze the sun hung round and red 
 as the yolk of a monster egg. The birds tried their 
 voices in twitters, in matinal calls that inspire the 
 early riser with a sense of journeys, of adventures to 
 be undertaken. She began to dress for riding. 
 
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 FORTUNATA 
 
 But with nervous chill and sickly excitement her 
 hands trembled so that they retarded her. She 
 caught up her riding-crop, and, opening the door, 
 stepped down the staircase, guided by the cold 
 marble balustrade. The suits of armor, with eye- 
 less sockets, leaned on their spears like sentinels. 
 In the sola Nello was opening the shutters and let- 
 ting in the salutary sun. 
 
 "Nello!" 
 
 The old man turned to see Fortunata standing in 
 the doorway like a retarded phantom. 
 
 "I'm going to ride. Tell Gaspare to saddle 
 Zuleika." 
 
 "Ah, scusi, but the Signorina must first eat." He 
 could never teach himself to say Signora. 
 
 When the food was brought she scarcely touched 
 it. At the first sound of hoofs in the court she 
 thrust the plate aside impatiently; she sprang down 
 the steps into the court, mounted, and as she evened 
 the reins: "Zuleika is growing old, Gaspare. How- 
 ever useless she gets, she must always be cared for. 
 Tell me, Gaspare, the way to Posilippo." 
 
 The man explained, pointing with his brawny 
 arm, the sleeve of his red woollen shirt rolled up 
 above his elbow. 
 
 "I remember, I have passed there often." And 
 she set the horse at a rapid trot for the open country. 
 The sun dazzled her; the wind made her cheeks 
 burn. Zuleika and herself were one, as in those 
 morning rides of her girlhood. 
 
 Bitterly she realized that she was born for happi- 
 ness, to draw from daily incidents a secret, a pene- 
 trating pleasure. A year ago what a marvel this 
 
 310
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 ride would have been to her! It was well after 
 midday when, white with dust, and snarled at by 
 all the dogs of the village, she rode into the open 
 place before the Church of Posilippo. A low, white 
 plaster building, vouted, arched, with a floor of 
 earth and a squat belfry. She gave her horse in 
 charge of an old peasant smoking a cigarette and 
 sunning himself, then went toward the doorway, 
 whence issued a man's voice, protesting, imploring, 
 adjuring. Because of her habit she dared not go 
 in, but leaned against the door, her hands hanging 
 down at her side, her riding-crop hidden in the folds 
 of her skirt. 
 
 Stern and wan in a vapor of incense, the priest's 
 face arrested her. He was a pale young man with 
 blazing eyes. He flung his arms wide, his hands 
 shivering over the congregation. He thundered and 
 beat his breast with the fervor of a fanatic. He was 
 hoarse as a raven, the sleeves of his surplice flapped 
 like wings; eloquent, no doubt, he was, though 
 Fortunata did not listen overmuch. The dialect he 
 spoke was hard to follow. The congregation it was 
 that held her. Peasants from neighboring villages 
 in their holiday clothes the women in gay shawls 
 and head-dresses, the men in multi-colored shirts. 
 As the young priest uttered the sacred names, the 
 saints', the Blessed Virgin's, the children of the soil 
 swayed and bowed and bent down like a field of 
 wheat swept by the wind. There was something 
 inexpressibly touching in these devout, unconscious 
 faces; in the clasped hands, coarse and twisted, and 
 very often dirty, held up in prayer. An immense 
 pity, a boundless love, took hold of Fortunata for 
 
 3"
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 all humanity. She read in many faces a profound 
 knowledge of sorrow. She thought, You must have 
 suffered, and you, and you, to look and weep so. 
 
 At the elevation of the Host, the acolyte lifted 
 his thin little arm and shook the bell. She prayed 
 as she never had prayed before, to the Christ, whom 
 in grief we all invoke, rather than to the far-off and 
 terrible Jehovah. "Incarnate love who took shape 
 among us, Saviour of humanity, Jesus, son of a 
 woman, have mercy on me! Already whispers, 
 faint noises, sounds of the winds in the trees escape 
 me. I have no enemy that I could wish to suffer 
 so. Cut me not off, Redeemer of the world!" 
 
 It was over, the tinkling bell ceased, the Spirit 
 had passed, and no miracle had taken place. Fortu- 
 nata suffered a change of heart. She was shaken 
 with disgust for the dirty, ill-smelling rabble, for 
 their filthy hands, for the very daylight. 
 
 The young priest wiped his forehead ; his face in 
 repose was common enough ; he blew his nose noisily, 
 and from the pulpit down he came holding up his 
 surplice, showing his cobbled boots and plebeian 
 ankles. Fortunata was disillusioned. Turning, she 
 went out, paid the peasant who had tended her 
 horse, and mounted. 
 
 "The Padre, the Padre!" and the men, bare- 
 headed, crowded about the church. The women 
 held high their little children to see the Father pass. 
 
 Fortunata turned Zuleika toward Rome, gave one 
 swift glance back over her shoulder, and away furi- 
 ously she galloped. Had one of those peasants 
 looked from his worshipping and caught a glimpse 
 of that pallid face covered by a black veil, he might 
 
 312
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 have had food for thought. The torch of faith, that 
 had lately burnt so fiercely, was gone out, and in 
 her night she did not want to believe. To be cured 
 of her deafness she no longer prayed. Indignation 
 against fate alone possessed her. 
 
 At the gates of the Palazzo Colibri, late in the night 
 and though the weather was capricious, a hurdy- 
 gurdy played, while men and girls danced in a ring. 
 The Palazzo door was open ; the radiance of the hall- 
 lamp spread down the stairs like a silver sheet. A 
 man in riding clothes stood on the highest step. 
 
 "Santa Maria!" screamed the dancers, and they 
 scampered in pretended fright, as a horse, dark with 
 sweat and ridden by a woman in a black habit, 
 dashed under the reverberating archway in a volley 
 of hoof-beats. 
 
 The horse's sudden halt flung the rider forward. 
 
 "Fortunata!" 
 
 It was Dick who held her, or she would have 
 fallen. She tried to smile as she shook her foot free 
 of the stirrup. 
 
 "Fortunata, what an awful day! For God's sake, 
 where have you been?" And, glad, triumphant, he 
 went with her in his arms up the stairs and into the 
 hall. 
 
 Too tired to answer, she laid her cheek on the 
 rough tweed of his coat. She was deathly pale. Her 
 lips were white ; her nostrils throbbed as though she 
 had been running; her hair, clotted with dust and 
 damp, lay dark on her forehead ; her eyes, be- 
 tween their long lashes, kept the secrets of the 
 night. 
 
 "My darling, the rain overtook you! Your coat 
 313
 
 is wet; your hands are cold. I can feel your heart 
 beat." 
 
 All at once she opened wide her magical eyes. In 
 each was a tear. She put her arms about his neck; 
 their faces touched; her long habit was swathed 
 around her like the folds of a shroud.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 SHE saw that nothing could cure her. She said, 
 "We might as well go home." 
 
 The season was over. Balls, dinners, festas were 
 no more. They sat at home on either side of the 
 lamp, like old married people. It was pitiful to any 
 one who had known Fortunata to see her sitting, 
 like Griselda, humbly knitting. Richard read the 
 English magazines, the sporting papers, and trashy 
 love stories, for this Hercules delighted in simple, 
 bread-and-butter romances. At the jokes he laughed 
 conscientiously, but he no longer explained them, 
 as of old, and this little incident proved to her how 
 she had fallen in his esteem, his love. She would 
 lay down her work and look across at him with a 
 look inexpressibly wistful and tender. 
 
 She was tempted to tell her husband, to ask the 
 help of his common sense, his normal outlook. Then 
 she remembered his impatience of illness, his scorn 
 of infirmity, and her courage failed her. The prac- 
 tice of years in crowded ball-rooms, in chattering 
 crowds, hearing only one word out of a thousand, 
 had taught her to watch the lips of those who spoke 
 to her. She was never off her guard, as afraid of 
 discovery as a criminal. Her face, she feared, was 
 growing to have the strained expression, the anxious 
 cock of the head peculiar to the deaf.
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Her cleverness was superficial; no serious study 
 had ever held her. Even novels did not appeal. 
 She had been so intent upon making of her own life 
 a romance that the imaginary adventures of im- 
 aginary people could not distract her. 
 
 Fortunata was growing thinner with each day. 
 Her eyes were startling, so big did they seem in her 
 little pointed face. 
 
 "I shall take you for a trip," announced Richard. 
 "Where would you like to go?" 
 
 "I'll go where you go," she answered. 
 
 "To Venice, then," Dick declared. "Venice is a 
 capital place." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To Venice. There are mosquitoes there now, 
 to be sure; and I don't know how healthy it is at 
 this season; but ever since I've known you, Fortu- 
 nata, I've so wanted to go there with you!" 
 
 "To Venice, then," said Fortunata, with all the 
 humility of a slave. 
 
 He who has not seen Venice in May does not know 
 what enchantment the earth can hold. The spring 
 becomes the Adriatic as autumn becomes Rome. 
 A vaporous somnolence clings to this city of islands, 
 a sort of amorous tranquillity. Here, among the 
 hooded gondolas, among the palaces where love 
 seems to hide, even inexperienced hearts are stirred 
 with the hope of a happiness known and yet full of 
 mystery. 
 
 Venice is romantic, chimeric, essentially feminine; 
 no wonder the poets called her "La Bella." The 
 silent course of her canals, the noiseless passing of 
 
 316
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 her gondolas, lend a charm fabulous and melan- 
 choly. "Venice is dying," they say. "Venice is 
 deserted!" And yet she must have lacked some- 
 thing in the days of her splendor the poetry of her 
 decline through the Italian spring. 
 
 Venice is for the young and happy. The failures, 
 the disappointed, should never come here. The old 
 hopes will stir, the old thirst for achievement, the 
 old belief in happiness. 
 
 Among other scenes and strange faces, far away 
 from the doctor who had told her of her misfortune, 
 Fortunata could almost believe that she had suffered 
 from a dream, a hideous, prolonged, unutterable 
 nightmare! She deceived herself into thinking she 
 heard again. Later, these days of hope were the 
 saddest for her to remember. Supposing, she 
 thought, the doctor was mistaken doctors are not 
 infallible and a secret joy crept through her, as 
 torturing as it was sweet. Richard and Fortunata 
 were together now, always. She felt at rest with 
 him, and safe. Yes, and even happy. He was 
 nothing but a big animal. True, but then he was 
 such a pleasant animal to have about. He loved 
 her, and love, she thought, might ward off from her 
 the horror lying in wait. 
 
 It was their last night in Venice. "To-morrow," 
 said Fortunata, "we must be back in Rome; to- 
 night we will be happy, very happy, won't we, 
 Richard?" And all day they were insanely gay. 
 It made them laugh to see the pigeons strut; the 
 tourists made their sides ache. 
 
 When night came, "Let's hear the singing," said 
 Richard. 
 
 3x7
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Fortunata watched his lips, and her heart con- 
 tracted. "No, let us go where no one can hear a 
 sound," said she. 
 
 "All right, the Lagoon then." Under the hood 
 of the gondola they sat side by side. The moon 
 gave to the water an opalescent splendor. Richard 
 talked of their future and made plans. She put her 
 hands in his. A sort of deadly joy took hold of 
 her something final and ecstatic The damp air 
 of the canal blew in their faces. Other gondolas 
 passed them like water - serpents, rearing up and 
 bearing on their foreheads jewels of light. 
 
 "By George, I'm so sleepy that I'm not even 
 hungry!" said Richard. "After some beer and a 
 fowl and a little cheese, I could sleep like a 
 log." 
 
 In their room, an hour later, Dick lay abed, his 
 tousled head and big paws suggesting a lion sleep- 
 ing. Fortunata was at the window. The air she 
 knew was full of music, twang of guitars and voices 
 and song. Across the Lagoon the ship lights danced 
 like water - sprites crowned with flame. As she 
 watched, a star streamed across the sky like a 
 torch. My God! she thought; why in such a 
 world do you allow pain and separation? 
 
 They returned to Rome. One day, early in June, 
 Richard came into the sitting-room where Fortu- 
 nata was arranging the flowers. 
 
 He said to her: "I have been around to the 
 Palazzo this morning. Old What's-Her-Name, the 
 governess, is very ill, the majordomo tells me. I'm 
 very sorry." 
 
 3'*
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "The majordomo is ill?" 
 
 "No, thingum-bob, the nice old lady, the gov- 
 erness." 
 
 "Come, Dick, come with me!" She ran to her 
 room and flung on her things. 
 
 "You're a brick, Fortunata! We'll go together." 
 And they went out, side by side. At the palace, 
 however, she dismissed her husband, as the Princess 
 had given word to admit no one. Fortunata pro- 
 ceeded to her Excellency's study, where she found 
 the Colibri hunched up with her back to the door, 
 warming the soles of her feet on a brazier, for the 
 room was damp, although it was midsummer. 
 
 "Zia," demanded Fortunata, "is she very seri- 
 ously that is, dangerously ill?" 
 
 The Princess turned sharply, disclosing a sour 
 face, baggy under the eyes, and green with pallor. 
 
 "She's inconveniently ill. The Palazzo is turned 
 into a hospital, a sick-house; and if you ask me, I 
 think she's dying." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Per Dio, Fortunata!" cried the Princess, in a 
 burst of ill temper, "get your mother to lend you 
 her ear-trumpet. I say, Billford is dying." 
 
 "But it's so sudden. What's the matter?" 
 
 "Pneumonia, or something like that. No one 
 but an Englishwoman could get pneumonia in mid- 
 summer; but the wonder to me is the English 
 aren't extinct, such a mania as they have for fresh 
 air and cold baths; no collars on their shameless 
 old necks, taking the air winter and summer." 
 
 "Who's looking after her?" 
 
 "I had to have Doctor Martini. Pleasant for a 
 319
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 woman of my age, all these preparatives of death. 
 He said she must have a trained nurse, but there I 
 set my foot down. I'll have no spies in my house 
 creeping about my rooms, eating my food. No, per 
 sacramento! and so I told him." 
 
 "No one is looking after her?" 
 
 "Antonia goes in now and then." The Princess's 
 sneer showed her teeth. ' ' But the Signora Marchesa 
 likes visiting somebody else's room better. They're 
 all three back again. Santa Madonna! I couldn't 
 get along without the board, and Guido still thinks 
 'Palazzo Colibri' looks best on his card. He has no 
 more self-respect than a dog with a can at its tail, 
 and the Marchesa and Luigi, Madre di Dio! turtle 
 doves when they're not tigers, for it's the old story, 
 Fortunata. I am an old woman ; all I ask is to die 
 among decent people. I have seen enough crime 
 and filth to serve me a lifetime. The first years 
 your father had his drunken brawls here, and 
 now " 
 
 "I shall stay," said Fortunata, unfastening her 
 cloak. 
 
 "You may stay or you may go to the inferno," 
 the Colibri answered, indifferently, and turning her 
 back she relapsed into her former position, staring 
 at the brazier, knitting her brows, her old lips 
 twitching with vexation. 
 
 For two days and nights Fortunata watched over 
 her old friend, like those Sisters of Mercy resigned 
 to death and the consoling of others. She became 
 acquainted with patience, with faith, with how a 
 fine old Christian gets through with life. 
 
 They buried Billford in the English cemetery, out- 
 320
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 side of Rome, far from England. On her grave they 
 placed a squat stone cross, elaborately carved, ex- 
 tremely new, jaunty, pert, utterly unsuggestive of 
 Billford. In pace requiescat read the emblem of 
 faith. 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 FORTUNATA was back in her home in the Via 
 Vente Settembre. The sitting - room was un- 
 lighted, but instead of ringing for the lamp, she sat 
 down forlornly in the dusk. Dick came in from his 
 study; in his hand was something white; he held 
 it out to her. Even before she touched the paper 
 something told her what it was. Yes, the telltale 
 paper beginning, "I, Fortunata Rivallo 
 
 Everything gave way in her, and she confessed. 
 "I needed the money; I owed it. I knew the Prin- 
 cess wouldn't give me a lira, although she had plenty 
 of money in the bank; so I signed her name. Yes, 
 I forged." 
 
 She waited for him to speak, then went on, fever- 
 ishly: 
 
 "We understood each other; we always combined 
 and worked together. I didn't think she would 
 show me up. By everything sacred, Richard, I 
 have paid her already, but I was fool enough not to 
 get an acknowledgment. She pretended she had 
 torn the paper up. I ought to have known better, 
 but I believed her." 
 
 Fortunata's courage gave out; she leaned against 
 the table, silent. In the dark she felt his eyes upon 
 her. Why did he not speak? 
 
 "Light the lamp." 
 
 322
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Light the lamp." 
 
 He spoke in an impersonal voice, as to a servant. 
 Humbly, she obeyed. The shade and chimney 
 rattled together under her touch. She tried to read 
 in his eyes, but his face was in shadow, half -averted. 
 
 "Your aunt writes me a letter," said he, in a 
 voice she had never heard before. "She tells me 
 you first borrowed money of the Marchese Dacam- 
 pagna." Fortunata watched his lips, and her heart 
 contracted. 
 
 "Yes, but he was so rude, so afraid I wouldn't 
 
 pay- 
 
 " You told me once that this man was impertinent 
 to you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yet you could ask him for money? Great God 
 in heaven!" 
 
 "Where are you going?" For he had caught up 
 his hat and turned to the door. 
 
 "To pay your debt, Fortunata." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To pay our debt." 
 
 "But I have paid her, Richard. Before God, I 
 paid her." 
 
 "She says not. Which shall I believe? Whose 
 word shall I take?" 
 
 "We are both liars, it is true. There is little 
 choice." 
 
 "Forgery did you know that meant prison, 
 Fortunata, and disgrace?" 
 
 "I know so little of business." 
 
 "Men were hung for forgery fifty years ago." 
 323
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "What if they were?" she cried. "Let's forget 
 about the silly thing. Let's be happy!" She ran 
 across to him, her face transfigured by a flashing 
 softness. She tried to put her arms around his 
 neck. "Be patient with me!" she pleaded. "Rich- 
 ard, love me a little. I need it so much." He dis- 
 engaged himself from her arms, but not unkindly. 
 
 "I am trying to think," he said. "The bank will 
 be closed." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 He turned on her brusquely. "Don't keep say- 
 ing, 'What ?' but listen; it's a habit you're getting." 
 
 She shrank, conscience-stricken. He drew a chair 
 to the table, and sat down, resting his stern young 
 forehead on his hands. 
 
 "I don't want to say hard things, things I shall 
 regret. I want to make every allowance. You 
 don't see things as I do; we haven't been taught 
 alike. This life of ours isn't possible, Fortunata. 
 You must see, for you are clever, that we can't go 
 on in this way." 
 
 His justice hurt her more than the bitterest up- 
 braidings. She began to weep, her head on her 
 arms. 
 
 "I am very unhappy!" she sobbed. 
 
 "Why why weren't you straight with me, Fort- 
 unata?" He rose and from the bookcase took a 
 time-table. "A train leaves for Pisa at 8.15 or, 
 no, better, at 7.25. Spalding writes me that the 
 land is being valued. I ought to be there. I shall 
 be in Genoa day after to-morrow, and in England 
 by Wednesday. I want to be alone. I must 
 think." 
 
 324
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 She understood only that he was going. She 
 flared up. 
 
 "You are going to your mother to tell her your 
 troubles. For shame, Richard! a big, grown-up 
 man like you." 
 
 "This is a trouble I shall tell no one. You are 
 right, I am big enough to bear it alone." 
 
 "So I am a trouble?" she said, beginning to weep 
 again. "Yes, I am a curse, and a jettatura, too. 
 Be advised, Richard, and get a separation, a divorce. 
 There is no happiness for us." 
 
 He turned to her with a look which she never 
 forgot. 
 
 "If I didn't love you in this imbecile fashion, I 
 should know what to do." 
 
 "Take me with you!" she pleaded. "Don't leave 
 me here! I sha'n't be any trouble to you. Dick, 
 don't leave me here!" 
 
 "Calm yourself, Fortunata," he said, coldly. 
 "You must not give way to these Italian exaggera- 
 tions." He glanced at his watch. "I have a din- 
 ner at eight. There is just time to tell Melville 
 what to pack. I must write that check for your 
 aunt. I shall be home late and up before six, so I'll 
 say good-bye now." 
 
 "Then you won't take me?" 
 
 "No." " 
 
 She dried her eyes, and putting her hands on his 
 shoulders, looked at him. 
 
 "I don't want ever to forget you. I want to re- 
 member every line in your face." 
 
 "It's quarter after seven," he said. 
 
 "Good-bye, then, Richard." 
 3 2 5
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 "Good-bye," he answered, awkwardly, and he 
 brushed past her. 
 
 Her lips moved, as though to speak, and in the 
 doorway he turned. She shook her head, and he 
 went out. 
 
 As he was dressing, "Hang it all!" he thought. 
 "We'll go together." He threw on a dressing-gown 
 and went to the door; then pride surged up. " No, I 
 have no will where she is concerned." He opened 
 the window and looked out. The moon was like a 
 feather, and seemed too frail for the immensity of 
 the sky. 
 
 Fortunata the next morning walked into her aunt's 
 study. The Princess and Eugenio were playing at 
 cribbage. The fickle old lady had lately taken her 
 nephew into favor. 
 
 "Good-morning, Princess," said Fortunata. "You 
 thought I'd be disagreeable, but I won't. I want 
 my room. I want to stay here. Lord Trevers's 
 lawyer will send you a check. It will serve for my 
 board. Good-morning, Eugenio." 
 
 The Princess moved her lips as though speaking, 
 but uttered never a word. Fortunata nodded, 
 smiled, and went out. Her Excellency nudged 
 Eugenio. 
 
 "He's left her. Some of her signatures have 
 cropped up. Her flirtations; her lies have made 
 my cheeks burn, tough as they are. She's changed 
 this last year; I hardly know her." 
 
 "I wonder if she's happy?" 
 
 "Pshaw! my boy, who is? She has melancholia. 
 Her father had it before her, and went about as 
 yellow as a Dutch cheese. There's another trouble 
 
 326
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 she's getting deaf. Oh, I'm sure of it. Haven't 
 you noticed how one has to bawl at her?" 
 
 Eugenio was shocked. "It must be hereditary! 
 It might begin with me at any moment!" 
 
 "I suspected before, I am sure now," continued 
 the Princess. "I pretended to speak, and she made 
 believe she heard me. She has plenty of courage. 
 I always did like that girl."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 THE doctor had made a final examination of Fort- 
 unata's ears. Afterward he had helped her on 
 with her jacket in silence. She looked at him out of 
 the corner of her eyes. He was wiping his eye- 
 glasses, and his face was averted. 
 
 "Well?" she asked, and it seemed that her heart 
 must break through her breast. 
 
 He turned, and she saw the pity in his eyes. She 
 knew that he was searching for gentle words, trying 
 to deaden the blow. 
 
 "I understand," she said. "You needn't tell 
 me." She turned so pale that the doctor feared 
 she might faint. 
 
 He bent over her, murmuring consoling platitudes. 
 "More wonderful things have happened, the age of 
 miracles is not past." 
 
 She gave him one of her sudden smiles, transform- 
 ing her worn little face. 
 
 "Ah, miracles! They are so rare. I have never 
 met with one." She seemed quite composed, and 
 went out into the street. 
 
 "Wonderful!" mused the physician, as he watched 
 her slim young back disappear at the turning, " how 
 quickly youth throws off its burdens " and he went 
 back to his great work on heredity. 
 
 At home a letter was on the table, a letter from 
 328
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 Richard. It was the handwriting of a boy. He was 
 well, and hoped she was the same. He told her of 
 the crops with the precision of a farmer's almanac. 
 "To-day we had rain" yet here she was breaking 
 her heart! 
 
 She brooded over these letters, expressions of a 
 commonplace mind, read and re-read them. Richard 
 wrote that he would return within a week. The 
 service needed him. That he still loved her, he 
 complained, as though of ill health or of misfortune. 
 He loved her for reasons so transient; she adored 
 him because of nothing, and in spite of everything! 
 
 Time was creeping on ; the still hours of midnight 
 were approaching. In the quiet room the clock's 
 voice was portentous, and even Fortunata heard 
 the brazen tick-tack. Earlier in the evening Hor- 
 tense had brought in a large cardboard box con- 
 taining a new dress. With what anticipation had 
 Fortunata designed this very dress. And now 
 Slowly, she came to the foot of the bed, crossed her 
 arms upon it and rested her chin on her hands. A 
 deathly nausea crept over her. Her hands, that 
 were clasped together, turned cold as stone, and the 
 utter indifference that all afternoon had so be- 
 numbed her heart fell from her as a cloak. The 
 rays of the lamp fell upon her dressing-table; they 
 gleamed upon a group of bottles bottles of per- 
 fume, toilet preparations, all manner of feminine 
 vanities. In particular was she arrested by the 
 sinister glow of a dwarfish flask of thick white glass. 
 Like a fiery opal it burnt. The flame seemed to 
 possess hypnotic power, and reluctantly Fortunata 
 was drawn toward it. With both hands she lifted 
 
 3 2 9
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 the flask from the table and held it before her at 
 arm's-length. It was chloral ready for use. 
 
 This, thought she, is the key that can unlock my 
 prison. 
 
 For the first time Death appeared as a possibility. 
 He came unattended by horrors, rather as the natural 
 answer to a puzzling question long and arduously 
 sought after, the solution of the problem in which 
 her poor life had become entangled. 
 
 Still holding the flask in her hands, she continued 
 to gaze into the iridescent liquid. It trembled; it 
 shivered, as glows the crystal in which the Sibyl 
 reads the future. Trivial incidents of her childhood 
 came back to her, scenes and phases of her life, for- 
 gotten faces, intonations of voices long unheard 
 they passed, these echoes of impression, with the 
 rapidity of shadows thrown by a magic lantern on 
 a sheet. Again she recalled certain sensations of 
 her earliest years, tremors of reasonless joy now long 
 outgrown. Again she heard the volley of notes, the 
 contending piano practice that had resounded 
 through the bare corridors of the school and mingled 
 with the odor of whitewash. Again she felt the per- 
 fume of lilac that heralds the glorious approach of 
 the Italian spring. In this fleeting panorama of life 
 was every heart-beat that had made up her exist- 
 ence, and she found to her infinite surprise that 
 never had she been really happy. Dearest had been 
 the promises of hope, of which many, alas! had 
 never been fulfilled. Her forehead sank into her 
 hands. She had pursued the phantom of success, 
 believing that it possessed the gift of joy, with what 
 perseverance she alone knew. Of what avail now 
 
 330
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 were her strivings, her unconquerable hopes, her all- 
 devouring ambition ? A month ago she had grasped 
 success; life had held every treasure what might 
 she not have accomplished with money, position, 
 talent, beauty; above all, with an irresistible charm, 
 so that all she smiled on were forced to love her! 
 Then had come this hideous calamity, and at one 
 blow she was stricken to the ground, torn from 
 everything, and left destitute. 
 
 She had been to the wrong school a school for 
 the weak who hope to get through life without a 
 pang. She had never learned that this poor, 
 crippled flesh is not everything. The spirit is born 
 in anguish, nurtured in tears. Sorrow is the whet- 
 stone of the soul, and whether there be a captain or 
 the ranks stand alone, the right kind of soldier does 
 not give up his post. 
 
 She started, and her eyes again sought the flask. 
 
 For her purpose there was not enough chloral. 
 Her mother, she remembered, had more. She laid 
 aside the flask, rose and went into the hall. There 
 was a ringing in her ears, and she became aware of 
 a far-off piping, like the plaintive trills of a pastoral 
 flute. Through the echoing passages she walked 
 rapidly, with her customary light, firm step, her 
 head held high, with a brave bearing. Her shadow 
 ran on before her with the exaggerated lines of a 
 poster. At her mother's room she knocked. There 
 was no answer. With her hand and knee she pushed 
 open the door. The only light, that of the fire, 
 caressed the sway-backed furniture, subduing the 
 upholsterer's loud pompadour pink. The air held a 
 flavor of perfume, of warmth, of luxury. Under the
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 tent-like canopy of the bed the Contessa had already 
 retired. She sat propped up by pillows, against 
 whose billowy whiteness was defined her small, 
 cone-shaped head. Her face wore an expression of 
 extreme discomfiture. 
 
 "I have come to say good-night to you, mother." 
 
 On seeing her daughter standing in the doorway, 
 straight and very pale, the Contessa exclaimed: 
 "Something dreadful has happened! My bracelet, 
 the one of which I was so fond set in sapphires and 
 pearls is lost, completely disappeared. We have 
 looked for it everywhere impossible to find it." 
 
 Fortunata gave no answer, but her eyes shone 
 with a strange light, and a pity almost maternal 
 stirred in her. Now that it was too late, now that 
 she tasted the dust, she knew remorse. Her poor 
 mother! Always consuming her heart in nothing- 
 ness, while her daughter, by right her strength and 
 support, had not given her even a natural affection, 
 merely a haphazard caress when something was to 
 be gained, or a careless kiss bestowed by chance on 
 nose or eyebrow. 
 
 "Mother, you should not let these trivial daily 
 things worry you so. Believe me, they are not 
 worth it." The Contessa signalled a feeble reproof. 
 
 "You speak very foolishly. It was the last thing 
 your father gave me. Another link with the past 
 is gone." 
 
 Fortunata's heart was shot with a sudden, an all- 
 piercing pity. She took the thin hand with its 
 swollen veins and held it a moment lightly against 
 her lips. 
 
 "Oh, Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on me!" 
 332
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 She stood as though arrested, as though a voice, 
 long dead, had called her, as though a forerunner to 
 herself in this world of sorrows had spoken. 
 
 With bowed head Fortunata left the room. The 
 strength was all at once gone from her, and she 
 could scarcely drag herself along. Her dark shadow 
 flung out before her, trembled, as in her breast 
 trembled her tormented heart. 
 
 On reaching her room she took a drinking-glass 
 of finest workmanship from the mantelpiece, where 
 it had stood for years among her treasured pos- 
 sessions. She placed it on the table near the bed, 
 and into it measured out the chloral. This she did 
 without haste, carefully, deliberately. 
 
 She was overwhelmed with weariness, as though 
 all her life long she had never rested. Above all, 
 she was disheartened, like a traveller who has run 
 miles to see a great procession and comes too late, 
 when the pageant has already passed. Slowly she 
 went to the window, dragging her feet as stumble 
 the mortally wounded. She leaned against the 
 frame, and her gaze strayed out into the blackness, 
 into the depths of the night. 
 
 It was a divine night, with no moon but a legion 
 of stars constellations, planets burning in space. 
 They appeared like an army : orderly, majestic, like 
 the works of a wise Providence. On such a night 
 one might convert an atheist. The garden, warmed 
 all day by the June sun, sent up a penetrating odor 
 of box, while faintly, very faintly, from the Church 
 of Gesu, across the way, came the ringing of bells. 
 All at once the moon rose, glorious, full, resplen- 
 dent. The golden globe mounted with dignity, as 
 
 333
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 though intent on reaching the topmost heaven ; be- 
 low, the transfigured garden lay flooded in light, the 
 cypresses cast black shadows, and the birds awak- 
 ened. Through the night drifted a fragrance too 
 faint to be named, stirring the senses like a caress. 
 Suddenly Fortunata's thirst for life sprang up, the 
 unquenchable thirst of her childhood for everything 
 fleeting and lovely. There stirred in her a tremor 
 of anticipated joy, one of those promises which the 
 heart cannot resign. Great burning tears rose in 
 her eyes; the garden grew blurred, and the close- 
 cropped cypresses, with their black shadows, seemed 
 awry. 
 
 Slowly she turned away and began to undress. 
 She folded her clothes as she had been taught when 
 a child. Her new dress, in which she had pictured 
 herself, she hung in the wardrobe with care, as 
 though intending to wear it on the morrow. She 
 arranged her books, papers, and ornaments. These 
 futile duties, gone through with night after night 
 for a lifetime, soothed her as might some ceremony 
 oft repeated, grown monotonous and dear. She 
 lingered over these details a little, yet not too long, 
 for fear lest cowardice should enter into her heart. 
 When ready for bed she brushed her long hair, and 
 so strong is habit that to-night, as always, she 
 looked into the mirror. She felt as though behold- 
 ing the face of a stranger a pale child, seemingly 
 not more than sixteen or seventeen, whose fair hair, 
 parted and falling on her shoulders, contrasted with 
 her dark, wistful eyes. These eyes, she thought, 
 will never look again into a human face with the 
 spark of recognition, and she was moved to a pro- 
 
 334
 
 FORTUNATA 
 
 found pity, not so much for herself as for this youth- 
 ful phantom. Long and searchingly she gazed at 
 her reflection. She understood now why when she 
 had lied she had been so readily believed. Singular 
 that her egoism and lack of charity had left no 
 imprint ! 
 
 Her courage was failing, and she lay down on the 
 bed. It was the bed of her girlhood, to which, 
 night after night, she had gone so gladly from balls 
 and dances, with the last waltz ringing in her ears. 
 
 The glass beside her with its fatal drug seemed to 
 say, "There is no escape!" She raised it, and as 
 the cold brim touched her lips, a shudder passed 
 through her. Slowly she drank and put the glass 
 down empty. Still her fingers lingered about it. 
 It had been given to her years before by a man who 
 had loved her. He had said, "Whenever you drink 
 from this, remember me." This is the last thing I 
 shall ever touch, she thought. 
 
 A gust of air, fragrant from the garden, swung 
 one of the windows closed, and the candle flame, as 
 though blown already by the breath of coming 
 Death, went out. To these walls now no longer 
 seen, yet well imagined, to everything that she had 
 loved, to those eyes that had once looked tenderly 
 upon her, Fortunata flung wide her arms and cried, 
 "Addio!" 
 
 THE END