THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

"He did, sir," said she haughtily; "he told me that you had been very absurd, and had made him feel a fool—which he did not at
all relish. Oh, oh, oh!" she broke out with a little burst of laughter, "how could you be so mad as to spare him for his
pocket-handkerchief!"
"For a reason, madam," I said, "which does not amuse me at all."
"Nor should it," she agreed. "That was a serious thing that you did, Checho. It was more serious than you seem to suppose. The
wounds in his person are nothing compared to what you did beside. He is a proud man, and you have wounded his vanity. I
doubt if he will ever be healed of that stroke. Do you know what he said to me just now?"
She was perfectly friendly now, by my side, almost touching me with her quick beautiful hands. With what seemed to me a
levity no longer becoming the woman she was grown to be, she talked of serious things with sparkling eyes, and would give me
confidences which she had received from an impudent liar. In reply to her question I shook my head. I could not speak to her
just then, nor could I look at her.
She told me her story. "Count Amadeo said to me this morning, 'My friend, the fact that I owe you this preposterous debt of
initials makes it more than doubtful whether I can ever endure to pay it off. I could have had no objection to stand indebted to
Don Francis for my life, but I am a man of honour, with a name which I have some reason to value, and I assure you that it is
not tolerable to me that I should owe its continuance in my person to the fact that my mistress's maiden name began with the
same letters.' He said also——"
But I had caught her by the arm. "No more," I cried, "No more, O God!"
She was alarmed. "You are ill, you are ill, Checho?"
I said, "I stand at a death-bed. Love lies dying down there. Hush. We should be on our knees."
She was now weeping bitterly. "O lasso! O lasso! What have I done to you?"
"I fought in your honour, madam," I said, commanding myself, "I dared a murder in your defence. I would have stormed Hell's
ramparts and put the baleful city to the sword in the same cause. From that accursed day on which I first saw you until now I
have held you high before my face as the glory of womanhood. And now you repeat the slander for which that monster lay at
my mercy. You repeat it—you allowed him to say it in your ear!"
She was pale, her eyes were wide; but she did not retreat. "But," she said, "but it is true, Checho. It is true. What he said to you
was true— and now—" she frowned as she pondered out what was to come; clouds gathered over her beautiful, soulless face;
she folded her arms, clenched her teeth and stormed at me.
"You fool, you fool, you fool!" she said fiercely, panting for breath with which to end me. "Oh, you dream-child, you
moonraker, what are you doing in a world where men work for their pleasures and women have to cringe for the scraps? What
was I to do when Porfirio shut me out of doors, and you—you, who had caused it, refused to come with me? Was I to spread
my wings and fly straight into the lap of the Madonna? You would say so, I suppose! Your flights were very fine, but one
cannot live on the wind. Any man but a poet would have picked me up at the door and taken care of me with a 'Come, my
beloved, we will fly together.' But no! You were making eyes at the stars, and protesting that two of them were my eyes, and
the moon my forehead. And then—O Dio! and then, when you found me again in Florence, what did you do? I was at my wit's
ends, and you kissed my hands! There! That was all—all—all—on the word of a Christian! Did I not try to get more from you?
Any one but a poet would know that I did. I heard your long poems, I touched you, I ran to meet you, I was kind, I was cross,
I called you to me and then turned my back upon you. And then I found out, sir, what your baciar-di- mani, and bowings and
reverences were worth. They were worth—myself. You had your Virginia snug at home, in a brocaded gown, and a fan, my
word! Do you think I could not guess the truth of your story about her? Her honour indeed! What have such rubbish to do with
honour? A Virginia, a baggage for your arms—and I, to have my hand kissed, and to yawn over dreary verses! By the
Madonna, but I did my best to stop that play. Let me tell you, Don Francis, that it was I—I—I"—she struck her bosom with
each naming of herself—"who told Semifonte where he could lay hands upon his chattel. You believed it was the count—it was
123