The Cardinal's Snuff-Box

XXVI

And then Marietta fell ill.

One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with her customary brisk “Buon giorno, Signorino.”

Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, “Buon' giorno, Marietta.”

“Buon' giorno, Signorino,” she returned but in a whisper.

“What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?” Peter asked.

“I have a cold, Signorino,” she whispered, pointing to her chest. “I cannot speak.”

The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and set, it seemed flushed.

“Come here,” he said, with a certain peremptoriness. “Give me your hand.”

She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then gave it to him.

It was hot and dry.

“Your cold is feverish,” he said. “You must go to bed, and stay there till the fever has passed.”

“I cannot go to bed, Signorino,” she replied.

“Can't you? Have you tried?” asked he.

“No, Signorino,” she admitted.

“Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you try,” said he. “Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”

“I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?” was her whispered objection.

“Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work, it somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold; you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure of keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once.”

She left the room.

But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving in her kitchen.

“Marietta!” he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”

Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the flagrant fact of misdemeanour.

“Yes, Signorino,” she whispered.

“Well—? Do you call this bed?” he demanded.

“No, Signorino,” she acknowledged.

“Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Signorino,” she protested, horror in her whisper.

“Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of wilful insubordination.”

“Bene, Signorino,” reluctantly consented Marietta.

Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.

“The very man I most desired to meet,” said Peter, and beckoned to him. “Is there a doctor in the village?” he enquired, when Gigi had approached.

“Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor—Dr. Carretaji.”

“Good,” said Peter. “Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr. Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day? Marietta is not well.”

“Yes, Signorino.”

“And stop a bit,” said Peter. “Are there such things as women in the village?'

“Ah, mache, Signorino! But many, many,” answered Gigi, rolling his dark eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands.

“I need but one,” said Peter. “A woman to come and do Marietta's work for a day or two—cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing. Do you think you could procure me such a woman?”

“There is my wife, Signorino,” suggested Gigi. “If she would content the Signorino?”

“Oh? I was n't aware that you were married. A hundred felicitations. Yes, your wife, by all means. Ask her to come and rule as Marietta's vicereine.”

Gigi started for the village.

Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work, she would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life, work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary duties.

“But you are not half warmly enough covered up,” said Peter.

He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot water.

“Put this at your feet,” he said, returning to Marietta.

“Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this,” the old woman mustered voice to murmur.

“The Signorino likes it—it affords him healthful exercise,” Peter assured her.

Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.

“She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of bronchitis,” was his verdict.

“Is there any danger?” Peter asked.

“Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call again to-morrow.”

Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.

Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.

But next day she was manifestly worse.

“Yes—bronchitis, as I feared,” said the doctor. “Danger? No—none, if properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a sister.”

“Thank you very much. I hope you will,” said Peter.

And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent. But sometimes she had to send for Peter.

“She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you,” the sister said.

Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of mastery.

“Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You must not disobey the Signorino.”

And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter holding the cup to her lips.

On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, “She imagines that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good if he would come and talk with her.”

And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta, confirmed the sister's opinion.

“She is no worse—she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments.”

So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.

“What shall we do now?” Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.

“There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose,” said the sister.

“Could I ask him to come?” Peter doubted.

“Certainly,” said the sister. “In a case of illness, the nearest priest will always gladly come.”

So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.

And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.

The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so sunny-bright—it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent anthem.

“Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come in his place. Your man told me of your need,” the Cardinal explained.

“I don't know how to thank your Eminence,” Peter murmured, and conducted him to Marietta's room.

Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the garden.

The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and waited.

Nearly an hour passed.

At length the Cardinal came out.

Peter rose, and went forward to meet him.

The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive redness.

“Mr. Marchdale,” he said, “your housekeeper is in great distress of conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty of towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But I cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she has asked and received your pardon for them.”

“Offences towards me?” Peter wondered. “Unless excess of patience with a very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of none.”

“Never mind,” said the Cardinal. “Her conscience accuses her—she must satisfy it. Will you come?”

The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took her hand.

“Now, dear,” he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of one speaking to a beloved child, “here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell him what you have on your mind. He is ready to hear and to forgive you.”

Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face.

“First,” she whispered, “I wish to beg the Signorino to pardon all this trouble I am making for him. I am the Signorino's servant; but instead of serving, I make trouble for him.”

She paused. The Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Peter answered, “Marietta, if you talk like that, you will make the Signorino cry. You are the best servant that ever lived. You are putting me to no trouble at all. You are giving me a chance—which I should be glad of, except that it involves your suffering—to show my affection for you, and my gratitude.”

“There, dear,” said the Cardinal to her, “you see the Signorino makes nothing of that. Now the next thing. Go on.”

“I have to ask the Signorino's forgiveness for my impertinence,” whispered Marietta.

“Impertinence—?” faltered Peter. “You have never been impertinent.”

“Scusi, Signorino,” she went on, in her whisper. “I have sometimes contradicted the Signorino. I contradicted the Signorino when he told me that St. Anthony of Padua was born in Lisbon. It is impertinent of a servant to contradict her master. And now his most high Eminence says the Signorino was right. I beg the Signorino to forgive me.”

Again the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

“You dear old woman,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed, “how can you ask me to forgive a mere difference of opinion? You—you dear old thing.”

The Cardinal smiled, and patted Marietta's hand.

“The Signorino is too good,” Marietta sighed.

“Go on, dear,” said the Cardinal.

“I have been guilty of the deadly sin of evil speaking. I have spoken evil of the Signorino,” she went on. “I said—I said to people—that the Signorino was simple—that he was simple and natural. I thought so then. Now I know it is not so. I know it is only that the Signorino is English.”

Once more the Cardinal smiled at Peter.

Again Peter half laughed, half sobbed.

“Marietta! Of course I am simple and natural. At least, I try to be. Come! Look up. Smile. Promise you will not worry about these things any more.”

She looked up, she smiled faintly.

“The Signorino is too good,” she whispered.

After a little interval of silence, “Now, dear,” said the Cardinal, “the last thing of all.”

Marietta gave a groan, turning her head from side to side on her pillow.

“You need not be afraid,” said the Cardinal. “Mr. Marchdale will certainly forgive you.”

“Oh-h-h,” groaned Marietta. She stared at the ceiling for an instant.

The Cardinal patted her hand. “Courage, courage,” he said.

“Oh—Signorino mio,” she groaned again, “this you never can forgive me. It is about the little pig, the porcellino. The Signorino remembers the little pig, which he called Francesco?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.

“The Signorino told me to take the little pig away, to find a home for him. And I told the Signorino that I would take him to my nephew, who is a farmer, towards Fogliamo. The Signorino remembers?”

“Yes,” answered Peter. “Yes, you dear old thing. I remember.”

Marietta drew a deep breath, summoned her utmost fortitude.

“Well, I did not take him to my nephew. The—the Signorino ate him.”

Peter could hardly keep from laughing. He could only utter a kind of half-choked “Oh?”

“Yes,” whispered Marietta. “He was bought with the Signorino's money. I did not like to see the Signorino's money wasted. So I deceived the Signorino. You ate him as a chicken-pasty.”

This time Peter did laugh, I am afraid. Even the Cardinal—well, his smile was perilously near a titter. He took a big pinch of snuff.

“I killed Francesco, and I deceived the Signorino. I am very sorry,” Marietta said.

Peter knelt down at her bedside.

“Marietta! Your conscience is too sensitive. As for killing Francesco—we are all mortal, he could not have lived forever. And as for deceiving the Signorino, you did it for his own good. I remember that chicken-pasty. It was the best chicken-pasty I have ever tasted. You must not worry any more about the little pig.”

Marietta turned her face towards him, and smiled.

“The Signorino forgives his servant?” she whispered.

Peter could not help it. He bent forward, and kissed her brown old cheek.

“She will be easier now,” said the Cardinal. “I will stay with her a little longer.”

Peter went out. The scene had been childish—do you say?—ridiculous, almost farcical indeed? And yet, somehow, it seemed to Peter that his heart was full of unshed tears. At the same time, as he thought of the Cardinal, as he saw his face, his smile, as he heard the intonations of his voice, the words he had spoken, as he thought of the way he had held Marietta's hand and patted it—at the same time a kind of strange joy seemed to fill his heart, a strange feeling of exaltation, of enthusiasm.

“What a heavenly old man,” he said.

In the garden Sister Scholastica and Emilia were still walking together.

They halted, when Peter came out; and Emilia said, “With your consent, Signore, Sister Scholastica has accepted me as her lieutenant. I will come every morning, and sit with Marietta during the day. That will relieve the sister, who has to be up with her at night.”

And every morning after that, Emilia came, walking through the park, and crossing the river by the ladder-bridge, which Peter left now permanently in its position. And once or twice a week, in the afternoon, the Cardinal would drive up in the brougham, and, having paid a little visit to Marietta, would drive Emilia home.

In the sick-room Emilia would read to Marietta, or say the rosary for her.

Marietta mended steadily day by day. At the end of a fortnight she was able to leave her bed for an hour or two in the afternoon, and sit in the sun in the garden. Then Sister Scholastica went back to her convent at Venzona. At the end of the third week Marietta could be up all day. But Gigi's stalwart Carolina Maddalena continued to rule as vicereine in the kitchen. And Emilia continued to come every morning.

“Why does the Duchessa never come?” Peter wondered. “It would be decent of her to come and see the poor old woman.”

Whenever he thought of Cardinal Udeschini, the same strange feeling of joy would spring up in his heart, which he had felt when he had left the beautiful old man with Marietta, on the day of his first visit. In the beginning he could only give this feeling a very general and indefinite expression. “He is a man who renews one's faith in things, who renews one's faith in human nature.” But gradually, I suppose, the feeling crystallised; and at last, in due season, it found for itself an expression that was not so indefinite.

It was in the afternoon, and he had just conducted the Cardinal and Emilia to their carriage. He stood at his gate for a minute, and watched the carriage as it rolled away.

“What a heavenly old man, what a heavenly old man,” he thought.

Then, still looking after the carriage, before turning back into his garden, he heard himself repeat, half aloud

       “Nor knowest thou what argument
        Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent.”
 

The words had come to his lips, and were pronounced, were addressed to his mental image of the Cardinal, without any conscious act of volition on his part. He heard them with a sort of surprise, almost as if some one else had spoken them. He could not in the least remember what poem they were from, he could not even remember what poet they were by. Were they by Emerson? It was years since he had read a line of Emerson's.

All that evening the couplet kept running in his head. And the feeling of joy, of enthusiasm, in his heart, was not so strange now. But I think it was intensified.

The next time the Cardinal arrived at Villa Floriano, and gave Peter his hand, Peter did not merely shake it, English fashion, as he had hitherto done.

The Cardinal looked startled.

Then his eyes searched Peter's face for a second, keenly interrogative. Then they softened; and a wonderful clear light shone in them, a wonderful pure, sweet light.

“Benedicat te Omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,” he said, making the Sign of the Cross.