"You accuse her of lying--how and when does she lie? I have held her, ever since I first knew her, for the personification of truth."

"Well," said Egidio uneasily, his arraignment of Ragna seemed hard to substantiate, somehow, before this stern judge, "she says she has no housekeeping money when I know she must have. She saves and pinches, to send my money to her pauper family; she gives away the presents I have made her."

"If she chooses to stint herself in order to help her family, and in such a way that the household does not suffer by it, I do not see what you have to complain of. Is it not natural for her to wish to help her own kith and kin? Would not you do the same? And why do you oblige her to ask you for every _centesimo_? Why do you insist on even buying her clothes for her instead of letting her do it herself? If you tyrannize over her you must expect that she will develop a slave's vices--but I can still see no evidence of a direct lie on her part; at most, she may be guilty of an occasional, and considering your conduct, most excusable equivocation! Now, my friend, you have come to a turning-point, you must realize that yourself. By your own fault, I don't say consciously--but still by your own actions, you have come to this pa.s.s, that the relations between you and your wife, are, by your own admission, impossible--and that you are both of you miserable, and but for outside intervention you would be standing here now a murderer, as a result of your ungovernable temper--the murderer of the children you really love better than anything else in the world. Pull up man! For G.o.d's sake, pull up and start out afresh! I know Ragna will meet you half-way. Can't you see where you are going, at this rate?"

Valentini fairly squirmed under his friend's kindly hand. The indictment was terribly severe; it was the first time in his life that anyone had dared speak to him so openly and so authoritatively. It found him unprepared, bereft of his usual armour of carefully arranged appearances. The incident of the children had shaken him more than he cared to admit. If he had but little affection for Mimmo, Beppino was the very apple of his eye; but he would not willingly have done physical harm even to Mimmo. He, in common with many so-called "bad" men, had an instinctive love of children and animals and in spite of his violent temper nearly always won their affection. He was shocked to think to what his violence had led him--so much so that he could hardly believe it. Indeed had there been no witnesses he would have denied his action and in a short time would positively have persuaded himself that no such thing had taken place. He was not a man, however, to acknowledge himself in the wrong and Ferrati knew him well enough, not to expect it of him; it was enough that he should answer, as he presently did:

"My life, certainly, is anything but happy. A man generally looks forward to finding at least peace in his own home, but that has not been my lot--although if ever a man slaved from morning to night and gave up everything for his family, I am that man!"

It was quite true that he worked hard, but he would have worked equally hard with no family to provide for, industry was in the nature of the man.

"However, ungrateful though they be, _I_ shall keep on. I was a fool to get married, I see that now, if it had not been for that attack of typhoid--but I shall keep on sacrificing myself, I can't help it, I am never happy unless I am doing something for others. What do I care for money for myself?"

He threw out his arms in a n.o.ble gesture, at which Ferrati could not help smiling.

"I must think of the future of the children! By the way," he added almost shamefacedly, taking Ferrati's arm, "let us go to them and see that they have taken no harm--you see I don't bear malice--"

"Let us finish all that there is to say first," said Ferrati, anxious to wring some concession for Ragna from this unusually promising occasion.

"We were talking of your wife."

"Oh, well, yes, Ragna. She was most insolent to me last night, mad with jealousy and perfectly insufferable--you don't know what it is, Rico, to have a jealous wife! just think, she imagined some perfectly ridiculous thing between me and that slattern, Carolina. It seems impossible to have so little _criterio_. You wouldn't believe, Rico, the things she said! She almost got the better of my patience!" Ferrati smiled grimly.

"We had more words this morning and in a fit of rage she said she would leave me, and I told her to go--_a quel paese_. _Peggio per lei!_"

His voice rose as he found a vent for his repressed feelings, he almost forgot Ferrati's presence in the joy of shifting to other shoulders the blame which in his heart he knew to be his. He paused, drawn to his full height, his eyes burning.

"It is always the same story 'put a beggar on horseback and he'll ride to the Devil!' I married her out of the gutter--"

"I beg your pardon, Egidio," broke in Ferrati's stern voice, "you did no such thing and if you set any value on my friendship, you will never repeat those words."

Valentini cast a furtive side glance at him.

"Oh, well, have it as you will. I married her _colla camicia_--it amounts to the same--she has nothing of her own, so the worse for her if she goes off, as she will soon find out. Then she will beg to be taken back and I won't, I swear I won't."

"What!" cried Ferrati horrified, "do you mean to say you have actually driven away your wife, the mother of your child?"

"If she went it was of her own accord."

"Then she has gone?"

Had he come too late? Had Ragna actually found courage to throw off her bondage?

"When I came in, a.s.sunta told me that the padrona had Nando call her a carriage just after luncheon, and she has not come back yet."

Suddenly he flung himself on a chair by the table, his fingers clutching his hair, prey to a violent fit of self-pity.

"Oh, Rico, I am the unhappiest man on the earth! My wife, the woman for whom I sacrificed my whole life, has deserted me! The base ingrat.i.tude, the heartlessness of it! Think of a woman deserting her husband and children! My head will burst with the strain of it all. Oh, why was I such a fool as to marry? And a woman like that! All my life is sorrow and disappointment and _gratta-capi_."

He was thoroughly unstrung. He had never thought that Ragna would take him at his word when he bade her begone, but by now he had thoroughly convinced himself that she was gone, and his little world rocked on its foundations. Most of all, he was sorry for himself, he felt ill-used and sore.

Ferrati seated himself, facing Valentini across the table; he spoke, and his voice was incisive and authoritative.

"Do you realize what you have done? You have accused your wife of jealousy, but I know, and all Florence knows, Egidio, that she has good reason to be. However, she is patient and bears with it all until you outrage every sense of decency by running after her own maid in her own house--you need not deny it, I have seen the way you look at Carolina.

Then because she dares reproach you with your conduct you drive her away, for that is what it amounts to. Do you realize what this means to you? Your wife is loved and respected here, and when the story of her leaving you comes out, as it surely will--what will the world say of you?"

He had deliberately touched the chord of Egidio's susceptibility to public opinion, the one to which he responded most readily.

"The world knows me, I am not afraid of the world--it is Ragna who will be condemned."

"Ah, there you are wrong, the world is not so easily hoodwinked as you choose to think; there are more whispers afloat as to your conduct than you dream of. There are a number of people already, who accept you only on your wife's account, and if that were not enough, _I_ am here," he drew himself up, his stern eyes fixed on Valentini, "if I am questioned, as I am sure to be, I shall answer the truth!"

Valentini bounded on his chair.

"I thought you were my friend--a nice one you are indeed! I have nourished a viper in my bosom--I--"

"I am your friend, Egidio, your best friend, if you only knew it, for I am the only one who dares speak the truth to you without fear or favour.

But my friendship cannot compel me to deceit to an unworthy end. I shall tell the truth to the world, and you, Egidio, must make that truth such that it may be told without shame to yourself. You must persuade your wife to come back."

"Persuade her, humble myself to her? Never."

But Ferrati had seen the wavering in his eyes,

"Well, then, leave the 'persuasion' to me."

"You can tell her that I am willing to forgive her, if you like, that I am willing to consider that nothing has come between us--See, I am ready to make concessions, to add one more sacrifice--"

The battle was won, or at least as far as Valentini was concerned; the vague stirring of regret for his violence, the fear of his friend's judgment, the thought of his life without the comforts of a well-ordered home--even the thought of losing Ragna herself, although she had come to be but a _souffre douleur_, had undermined his obstinacy, and the threat of the condemnation of society had been the finishing touch. His declaration of his willingness to "forgive" his wife was, however, all that he could be brought to admit, as Ferrati well knew. It must be taken as the capitulation it signified, and acted upon without further discussion. Remained the problem of Ragna; where was she? Would she return? And, above all, could she be persuaded to resume the burden of Valentini's ill-humour? At least Ferrati intended that she should have the a.s.surance of his friendship and his help in future, for now, after this revealing scene with Valentini he had the weapons for her protection ready to hand.

"Ebbene?" asked Valentini impatiently, anxious to put an end to the interview. "Are you or are you not going to see the children?"

"Of course!" said Ferrati, rising, "poor little things, I had almost forgotten them! But," he added, sharply, turning to the other who was preparing to accompany him, "you must stop here, the sight of you might throw them into convulsions. Wait here, Egidio, and I will come down and report to you when I have seen them."

"Oh, very well," growled Egidio, his mouth twitching with discomfiture, "have it your own way!"

He thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets and slouched moodily up and down the studio. It had been a most unpleasant day for him, the culminating point of many, and the worst of it was he had come out of it with anything but flying colours. The curious part of it was that he felt weak, back-boneless, his rage had burnt itself out--for the time.

He could not understand it. He lit a _toscano_ and chewed it meditatively as he marched up and down. The fact was that the interview with Ferrati had cowed him; like all bullies he was a coward at heart and his friend's fearless condemnation had as effectually crushed him as physical chastis.e.m.e.nt would have done. He had met one stronger than himself, and was obliged to recognize the fact. In an astonishingly mild humour, he awaited events.

CHAPTER XIII

Ferrati found the children in bed, reeking of the arnica with which Carolina and a.s.sunta had been bathing their bruises.

"Signor Dottore!" cried Carolina, as he entered, "their poor little bodies are striped like zebras! If the Santissima Madonna and Gesu Bambino had not protected them they would have been killed!"

Both children burst out sobbing at this rehearsal of their woes, and Ferrati had some ado to make himself heard.