"Let me go! A thousand devils! Let me go!" cried the count, putting the lawyer back. "Impatient! I am maddened!"

"But not before we have settled the matter in question. That is impossible! Hear me, then. Count n.o.bili. With the deepest sorrow I accept the separation you demand on the part of the marchesa; you give me no choice. I venture no further remark," continues Guglielmi meekly, drilling his eyes to a subdued expression.

(His eyes are a continual curse to him; sometimes they will tell the truth.)

"But there is one point, my dear count, upon which we must understand each other."

In order to detain n.o.bili, Guglielmi is about to commit himself to a deliberate lie. Lying is not his practice; not on principle, for he has none. Expediency is his faith, pliancy his creed; lying is inartistic, also dangerous. A lie may grow into a spectre, and haunt you to your grave, perhaps beyond it.

Guglielmi felt he must do something decisive, or that exalted personage who desired to avoid all scandal not connected with himself would be irretrievably offended, and he, Guglielmi, would never sit on the judicial bench. Yet, unscrupulous as he was, the trickster shuddered at the thought of what that lie might cost him.

"It is my duty to inform you, Count n.o.bili"--Guglielmi is speaking with pompous earnestness--he anxiously notes the effect his words produce upon Count n.o.bili--"that, unless you remain under the same roof with your wife to-night, the marriage will not be completed; therefore no separation between you will be legal."

n.o.bili turned pale. He struck his fist violently on the table.

"What! a new difficulty? When will this torture end?"

"It will end to-morrow morning, Count n.o.bili. To-morrow morning I shall have the honor of waiting upon you, in company with the Mayor of Corellia, for the civil marriage. Every requisition of the law will then have been complied with."

Maestro Guglielmi bows and moves toward the door. If by this means the civil marriage can be brought about, Guglielmi will have clinched a doubtful act into a legal certainty.

"A moment, Signore Avvocato "--and n.o.bili is following Guglielmi to the door, consternation and amazement depicted upon his countenance, "Is this indeed so?"

n.o.bili's manner indicates suspicion.

"Absolutely so," answers the mendacious one. "To-morrow morning, after the civil marriage, we shall be in readiness to sign the deed of separation. Allow me in the mean time to peruse it."

He holds out his hand. If all fails, he determines to destroy that deed, and protest that he has lost it.

"Dio Santo!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es n.o.bili, giving the deed to him--"twenty-four hours at Corellia!"

"Not twenty-four," suggests Guglielmi, blandly, putting the deed into his pocket and taking out his watch with extraordinary rapidity, then replacing it as rapidly; "it is now seven o'clock. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning the deed of separation shall be signed, and you, Count n.o.bili, will be free."

CHAPTER X.

THE LAWYER BAFFLED.

At that moment Fra Pacifico's tall figure barred the doorway. He seemed to have risen suddenly out of the darkness. n.o.bili started back and changed color. Of all living men, he most dreaded the priest at that particular moment. The priest was now before him, stern, grave, authoritative; searching him with those earnest eyes--the priest--a living protest against all he had done, against all he was about to do!

The agile lawyer darted forward. He was about to speak. Fra Pacifico waved him into silence.

"Maestro Guglielmi," he said, with that sonorous voice which lent importance to his slightest utterances, "I am glad to find you here.

You represent the marchesa.--My son," he continued, addressing Count n.o.bili (as he did so, his face darkened into a look of mingled pain and displeasure), "I come from your wife."

At that word Fra Pacifico paused. Count n.o.bili reddened. His eyes fell upon the floor; he dared not meet the reproving glance he felt was upon him.

"My son, I come from your wife," repeated Fra Pacifico.

There was a dead silence.

"You saw your wife borne from the altar fainting. She was mercifully spared, therefore, hearing from your own lips that you repudiated her.

She has since been informed by Cavaliere Trenta that you did so. I am here as her messenger. Your wife accepts the separation you desire."

As each sentence fell from the priest's lips his countenance grew sterner.

"Accepts the separation! Gives me up!" exclaimed n.o.bili, quite taken aback. "So much the better. We are both of the same mind."

But, spite his words, there were irritation and surprise in n.o.bili's manner. That Enrica herself should have consented to part from him was altogether an astonishment!

"If Countess n.o.bili accepts the separation"--and he turned sharply upon Guglielmi--"nothing need detain you here, Signore Avvocato. You hear what Fra Pacifico says. You have only, therefore, to inform the Marchesa Guinigi. Probably her niece has already done so. We know that they act in concert." Count n.o.bili laughed bitterly.

"The marchesa is not even aware that I am here," interposed Fra Pacifico. "Enrica is now married--she acts for herself. Her first act, Count n.o.bili, is one of obedience--she sacrifices herself to you."

Again the priest's deep-set eyes turned reprovingly upon Count n.o.bili.

Dare the headstrong boy affect to misunderstand that he had driven Enrica to renounce him? Guglielmi remained standing near the door--self-possessed, indeed, as usual, but utterly crestfallen. His very soul sank within him as he listened to Fra Pacifico. Every thing was going wrong, the judgeship in imminent peril, and this devil of a priest, who ought to know better, doing every thing to divide them!

"Signore Guglielmi," said n.o.bili, with a significant glance at the open door, "allow me to repeat--we need not detain you. We shall now act for ourselves. Without reference to the difficulties you have raised--"

"The difficulties I have raised have been for your own good, Count n.o.bili," was Guglielmi's indignant reply. "Had I been supported by"--and he glanced at Fra Pacifico--"by those whose duty teaches them obedience to the ordinances of the Church, you would have saved yourself and others the spectacle of a matrimonial scandal that will degrade you before the eyes of all Italy."

Count n.o.bili was rushing forward, with some undefined purpose of chastising Guglielmi, when Fra Pacifico interposed. A quiet smile parted his well-formed mouth; he shrugged his shoulders as he eyed the enraged lawyer.

"Allow me to judge of my duty as a priest. Look to your own as a lawyer, or it may be the worse for you. What says the motto?--'Those who seek gold may find sand.'"

Guglielmi, greatly alarmed at what Fra Pacifico might reveal of their previous conversation, waited to hear no more; he hastily disappeared.

Fra Pacifico watched the manner of his exit with silence, the quiet smile of conscious power still on his lips. When he turned and addressed Count n.o.bili, the smile had died out.

Before Fra Pacifico can speak, the whole pack of dogs, attracted by the loud voices, gather round the steps before the open window. They are barking furiously. The smooth-skinned, treacherous bull-dog is silent, but he stands foremost. True to his breed, the bull-dog is silent. He creeps in noiselessly--his teeth gleam within an inch of n.o.bili. Fra Pacifico spies him. With a furious kick he flings him out far over the heads of the others. The bull-dog's howl of anguish rouses the rest to frenzy. A moment more, and Fra Pacifico and Count n.o.bili would have been attacked within the very room, but again footsteps are heard pa.s.sing in the shadow. A shot is fired close at hand. The dogs rush off, the bull-dog whining and limping in the rear.

Count n.o.bili and Fra Pacifico exchange glances. There is a knock at the door. Pipa enters carrying a lighted lamp which she places on the table. Pipa does not even salute Fra Pacifico, but fixes her eyes, swollen with crying, upon Count n.o.bili.

"What is the matter?" asks the priest.

"Riverenza, I do not know. Adamo and Angelo are out watching."

"But, Pipa, it is very strange. A shot was fired. The dogs, too, are wilder than ever."

"Riverenza, I know nothing. Perhaps there are some deserters about.

We are used to the dogs. I never hear them. I am come from the signorina."

At that name Count n.o.bili looks up and meets Pipa's gaze. If Pipa could have stabbed him then and there with the silver dagger in her black hair she would have done it, and counted it a righteous act. But she must deliver her message.

"Signore Conte"--Pipa flings her words at n.o.bili as if each word were a stone, with which she would have hit him--"Signore Conte, the marchesa has sent me. The marchesa bids me salute you. She desired me to bring in this light. I was to say supper is served in the great sala. She eats in her own room with the cavaliere, and hopes you will excuse her."