The weeks passed thus pleasantly for me, and I was wafted from winter into the fragrant chambers of spring before I was aware. On the morning of April 23, as I was sitting in my lodging, drinking my chocolate, I received a letter from Father Carnesecchi, saying that Aurelia was in Florence; and while I was still standing in ferment with his note shaking in my hand, Virginia burst into my room, fell at my feet, clasped me by the knees. "Master, news, news!" she cried, and kissed my hands with passion.
CHAPTER XXIII
AURELIA FORGIVES
The mingling of emotions, like that of two waters, may produce a volume whose direction cannot be calculated by any previous knowledge of the separate streams. In my case, just described, the reader has seen that while my heart was still palpitating at the news of the recovery of a mistress, it was to be shaken anew by the sight of a dear friend. Two sorts of joy met and blended their forces within me; their issue in one turbulent flood, which I should have thought to see heading to Aurelia at the convent, instead of that poured themselves upon the bosom of Virginia. I raised her from my knees where, upon her own, she was clinging, and clasped her in my arms. I was, indeed, happy to see her again, and so much so that I forgot entirely that I had only myself to blame for our long separation. For the first time in our lives our lips met.
But if I was moved, what is to be said of her? I can hardly express the painful scene which followed. She lost all control of her senses; she clung to me as if I had been a spar in some stormy sea wherein she drowned; she uttered incoherent cries, she gasped, sobbed, was clean distraught. When I held her, when I kissed her, she struggled like a caught bird, fought furiously, used her teeth, her nails. And yet all the time she was caressing me with every diminutive, every sweet term of love which the most passionate people in the world can find as expression of their love-thoughts. She stroked my cheeks, hair and shoulders, crooned over me like a brooding dove, held me so straitly that I was near choking; or with tragic mouth and eyes of sombre fire she adjured me to kill her there and then, lest any subsequent moment of her life might be less full of bliss than the present. I know that my fancy was inflamed, and suspect that my senses--from whose occasional dominion I was no more free than most men--must have sprung into flame from this dangerous contact, had it not been that her excessive joy induced an attack of hysterics. For a time she was like a madwoman, beyond all human power; and she ended by fainting in my arms, and had to be carried by myself and Scipione, my servant, to a bed. There she lay moaning and muttering to herself for an hour or more. It may be imagined whether all this tended to calm my own agitation or to turn my thoughts towards that road whereby alone honour and salvation could be reached. I could not go out to see Aurelia; I could hardly even think of Aurelia while Virginia lay in my house with closed eyes, clenched hands and shuddering breath. I left Scipione in charge of her, and returned to my saloon, to pace the floor until he brought me word that she could be spoken with. This he did not do for some hours.
He came in at last, shaking his head. "That is a bad case, sir--porca miseria!" says he.
I hoped that she was better.
"She's ashamed of herself, sir," he said, "as well she may be. What a scandal, my word! But these baggages have no modesty."
The term offended me. I told him he was talking nonsense. "She is a true friend," I said, "whose sympathy may be excessive; but to take joy in my joy is the act of a friend."
Scipione saluted me. "Sir, if her joy is your honour's, I have no more to say. A gentleman is entitled to his pleasures, I hope. And she is a handsome girl, though she is thin."
"That will do, my man," said I. "You say that she is better."
"She is as well, sir, as she deserves," replied this assured fellow, "but she is mad."
"Mad!" I cried.
"Why, yes, sir," says he. "Judge for yourself. Here is a girl frying in love, wanting to tell your honour that another is yours for the asking." He angered me by this freedom--which I can assure the reader is not uncommon in this country--and I dismissed him with a few directions. I said that I must go out at once and was uncertain when I should return. Meantime Virginia was to have every care, and was to be provided with-- among other things--suitable clothes for one in the position of a house- servant. Those in which she had made her sudden appearance before me were obviously peculiar to the convent in which she worked, and to her standing there. I left some money with Scipione and went out.
Perhaps it had been better to have interrogated Virginia before taking the step I now took, and so I should have done had I not been rather disturbed in my mind, first, by my own pleasure at seeing her again-- which I now considered to have been disloyal to Aurelia--and next, by Scipione's account of her state of heart. Virginia in love with me! This was not the first time I had suspected it; but, reflecting upon our meeting, I was not able to deny that she had been very much moved. Now, should it be true, I thought to myself, what on earth was I to do? What, indeed, were the MERITS of the case? Was the fault mine--and how could I best repair it? These questions were beyond my then powers of resolution while I was uncertain of Aurelia's fate and prospects, and I deliberately put them aside. I turned all my powers of mind and heart to consider her injuries, probable sufferings and monstrous humiliations, and by the time I was near the Convent of SS. Maria e Giuseppe I was trembling in every limb, and in the state of apprehension and desire which becomes the devout lover of a lady incredibly lovely and wise.
I approached the shabby gate, and with uncovered head saluted the posts which held it up. I rang the bell, the portress appeared; I asked her for my mistress by name; she said that she would take up mine to the Lady Superior if my lordship would be pleased to wait. Then she disappeared, and my lordship stood fainting there.
Father Carnesecchi, I perceived, was with Aurelia; for the note brought back by the portress was all in his handwriting but the signature. The initials A. L. were in her own. She said, or the respectable Jesuit said for her, that she was highly sensible of my courtesy in waiting upon her, and deplored that, as she was somewhat fatigued and about to return to Padua, it was impossible for her to receive me at the moment. She hoped on a future occasion to find suitable expression of her feelings, and begged in the meantime to assure me of her entire respect.
At any other time I might have been chilled by the studious repression of this note; but at that moment I had but one aim. Begging the portress to wait, I tore a leaf from my pocket-book, wrote upon it, "Madam, forgive the wicked F. S.," and gave it over to the good nun. "I beg of you, my sister, to give this note into the hands of Donna Aurelia," I said. "It touches on a matter of the utmost consequence to me." She agreed, with an indulgent and somewhat intelligent smile, and retired once more. In half the time she came back with a little twisted note. "I hope that I can please you this time, sir," she said. "At any rate you may be sure of your correspondent, for Donna Aurelia wrote every word of it." There were but three words, "Si, si, si--Aurelia," I read, and turning my face to the Heavens, thanked God that I was absolved by the dear subject of my crimes.
Transformed, indeed, I trod upon air between the Prato and the Palazzo Giraldi. I was told that his Excellency was visiting the Contessa Galluzzo. I sailed, I soared, I flashed over Arno and into the house at the Porta San Giorgio. "Absolved! Absolved!" I cried, and kissed Donna Giulia's hand. The count pressed mine very warmly.
"Either the Church," said he, "has gained in you a remarkable champion, or the world lost a promising scoundrel. I had not suspected you of such a load of sin." I showed my precious paper and commented upon it with rapture.
"Count," I said in conclusion, "a truce to your sallies. Confess my Aurelia a pattern among ladies. What modesty! What clemency! What divine compassion! It is too much grace; it is dangerous; it tempts one to sin again." At the time of utterance I undoubtedly believed what I said.
"I am of your opinion," said the count. "I fancy that the lady is very ready to forgive you. I speak for myself when I say that I shall do everything in my power to assist her."
"Speak also for me, caro mio," said Donna Giulia. "I will wait upon Donna