The old woman pushed back her shawl, and raised her wrinkled soft face, without much expression, to say:

“The child has been calling for you for the last hour or more.”

Helion de Montevesso walked all the length of the ante-room and back again; then stood over the old woman as before.

“You know what she is,” she began directly the count had stopped. “She won’t give us any rest. When she was little, one could always give her a beating, but now there is no doing anything with her. You had better come and see for yourself.”

“Very unruly?” asked Count de Montevesso.

“She is sixteen,” said the old woman crisply, getting up and moving towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. A stick that had been lying concealed in the folds of her dress was now in her hand. She ascended the stairs more nimbly than her appearance would have led one to expect, and the Count de Montevesso followed her down a long corridor where at last the shuffle of her slippers and the tapping of her stick ceased in front of a closed door. A profound silence reigned in this remote part of the old palace, which the enormous vanity of the upstart had hired for the entertainment of his wife and his father-in-law in the face of the restored monarchies of Europe. The old peasant woman turned to the stiff figure which, holding the candelabra and in its laced coat, recalled a gorgeous lackey.

“We have put her to bed,” she said, “but as to holding her down in it that was another matter. Maria is strong, but she got weary of it at last. We had to send for Father Paul. Shameless as she is, she would not attempt to get out of her bed in her nightdress before a priest. The Father promised to stay till we could fetch you to her, so I came down, but I dared not go further than the ante-room. A valet told me you had still a guest with you, so I sent him away and sat down to wait. The wretch to revenge himself on me put out the lights before he went.”

“He shall be flung out to-morrow,” said M. de Montevesso in a low tone.

“I hope I have done nothing wrong, Helion.”

“No,” said M. de Montevesso in the same subdued tone. He lent his ear to catch some slight sound on the other side of the door. But the stillness behind it was like the stillness of a sick-room to which people listen with apprehension. The old woman laid her hand lightly on the sleeve of the gorgeous coat. “You are a great man. . . .”

“I am,” said Count Helion, without exultation.

The old woman, dragged out at the age of seventy from the depths of her native valley by the irresistible will of the great man, tried to find utterance for a few simple thoughts. Old age with its blunted feelings had alone preserved her from utter bewilderment at the sudden change; but she was overpowered by its greatness. She lived inside that palace as if enchanted into a state of resignation. Ever since she had arrived in Genoa, which was just five weeks ago, she had kept to the upper floor. Only the extreme necessity of the case had induced her to come so far downstairs as the white ante-room. She was conscious of not having neglected her duty.

“I did beat her faithfully,” she declared with the calmness of old age and conscious rectitude. The lips of M. de Montevesso twitched slightly. “I did really, though often feeling too weary to raise my arm. Then I would throw a shawl over my head and go out in the rain to speak to Father Paul. He had taught her to read and write. He is full of charity. He would shrug his shoulders and tell me to put my trust in God. It was all very well for him to talk like that. True, that on your account I was the greatest person for miles around. I had the first place everywhere. But now that you made us come out here just because of your fancy to turn the child into a contessa, all my poor senses leave my old body. For, you know, if I did beat her, being entrusted with your authority, everybody else in the village waited on a turn of her finger. She was full of pride and wilfulness then. Now, since you have introduced her amongst all those grandissimi signori, of whom she had only heard as one hears of angels in heaven, she seems to have lost her head with the excess of pride and obstinacy. What is one to do? The other day, on account of something I said, she fastened her ten fingers into my grey hair. . . .” She threw her shawl off and raised her creased eyelids. . . . “This grey hair, on the oldest head of your family, Helion. If it hadn’t been for Maria she would have left me a corpse on the floor.” The mild bearing of the old woman had a dignity of its own, but at this point it broke down and she became agitated.

“Many a time I have sat up in my bed thinking half the night. I am an old woman. I can read the signs. This is a matter for priests. When I was a big girl in our village they had to exorcise a comely youth, a herdsman. I am not fit to talk of such matters. But you, Helion, could say a word or two to Father Paul. He would know what to do . . . or get the bishop . . .”

“Amazing superstition,” Count Helion exclaimed in a rasping growl. “The days of priests and devils are gone,” he went on angrily, but paused as if struck with a sudden doubt, or a new idea. The old woman shook her head slightly. In the depths of her native valley all the days were alike in their hopes and fears, as far back as she could remember. She did not know how she had offended her brother, and emitted a sigh of resignation.

“What’s the trouble now?” Count Helion asked brusquely.

The old woman shrugged her shoulders expressively. Count Helion insisted. “There must be some cause.”

“The cause, as I am a sinner, can be no other but that young signore that came out with you, and to whom you bowed so low. I didn’t know you had to bow to anybody, unless perhaps to the king, who has come back lately. But then a king is anointed with holy oils! I couldn’t believe my eyes. What kind of prince was that?” She waited, screwing her eyes up at Count Helion, who looked down at her inscrutably, and at last condescended to say:

“That was an Englishman.”

She moaned with astonishment and alarm. A heretic! She thought no heretic could be good-looking. Didn’t they have their wickedness written on their faces?

“No,” said Count Helion. “No man has that and no woman either.”

Again he paused to think. “Let us go in now,” he added.

The big room (all the rooms in that palazzo were big unless they happened to be mere dark and airless cupboards) which they entered as quietly as if a sick person had been lying in there at the point of death, contained amongst its gilt furniture also a few wooden stools and a dark walnut table brought down from the farmhouse for the convenience of its rustic occupants. A priest sitting in a gorgeous arm-chair held to the light of a common brass oil lamp an open book, the shadow of which darkened a whole corner of the vast space between the high walls decorated with rare marbles, long mirrors and heavy hangings. A few small pieces of washing were hung out to dry on a string stretched from a window-latch to the back of a chair. A common brazero stood in the fire-place and, near it, a gaunt, bony woman dressed in black, with a white handkerchief on her head, was stirring something in a little earthen pot. Ranged at the foot of a dais bearing a magnificent but dismantled couch of state, were two small wooden bedsteads, on one of which lay the girl whom Cosmo knew only as “Clelia, my husband’s niece,” with a hand under her cheek. The other cheek was much flushed; a tangle of loose black hair covered the pillow. Whether from respect for the priest or from mere exhaustion, she was keeping perfectly still under her bed-clothes, pulled up to her very neck so that only her head remained uncovered.

At the entrance of the count the priest closed his book and stood up, but the woman by the mantel-piece went on stirring her pot. Count Helion returned a “Bon soir, l’Abbé,” to the priest’s silent bow, put down the candelabra on a console, and walked straight to the bedstead. The other three people, the gaunt woman still with her pot in her hand, approached it too, but kept their distance.

The girl Clelia remained perfectly still under the downward thoughtful gaze of Count Helion. In that face, half-buried in the pillow, one eye glittered full of tears. She refused to make the slightest sound in reply to Count Helion’s questions, orders and remonstrances. Even his coaxings, addressed to her in the same low, harsh tone, were received in obstinate silence. Whenever he paused, he could hear at his back the old woman whispering to the priest. At last even that stopped. Count Helion resisted the temptation to grab all that hair on the pillow and pull the child out of bed by it. He waited a little longer, and then said in his harsh tone:

“I thought you loved me.”

For the first time there was a movement under the blanket. But that was all. Count Helion turned his back on the bed and met three pairs of eyes fixed on him with different expressions. He avoided meeting any of them. “Perhaps if you were to leave us alone,” he said.

They obeyed in silence, but at the last moment he called the priest back and took him aside to a distant part of the room where the brass oil lamp stood on the walnut-wood table. The full physiognomy of Father Paul Carpi with its thin eyebrows and pouting mouth was overspread by a self-conscious professional placidity that seemed ready to see or hear anything without surprise. Count de Montevesso was always impressed by it. “Abbé,” he said brusquely, “you know that my sister thinks that the child is possessed. I suppose she means by a devil.”

He looked with impatience at the priest, who remained silent, and burst out in a subdued voice:

“I believe you people are hoping now to bring him back into the world again, that old friend of yours.” He waited for a moment. “Sit down, Abbé.”

Father Carpi sank into the arm-chair with some dignity, while Count Helion snatched a three-legged stool and planted himself on it on the other side of the table. “Now, wouldn’t you?”

Something not bitter, not mocking, but as if disillusioned, seemed to touch the lips of Father Carpi at the very moment he opened them to say quietly:

“Only as a witness to the reign of God.”

“Which of course would be your reign. Never mind, a man like me can be master under any reign.” He jerked his head slightly towards the bed. “Now what sort of devil would it be in that child?”

The deprecatory gesture of Father Carpi did not detract from his dignity. “I should call it dumb myself,” continued Count Helion. “We will leave it alone for a time. What hurts me often is the difficulty of getting at your thoughts, Abbé. Haven’t I been a good enough friend to you?” To this, too, Father Carpi answered by a deferential gesture and deprecatory murmur. Count Helion had restored the church, rebuilt the presbytery, and had behaved generally with great munificence. Father Carpi, sprung from shop-keeping stock in the town of Novi, had lived through times difficult for the clergy. He had been contented to exist. Now at the age of forty or more, the downfall of the empire, which seemed to carry with it the ruin of the impious forces of the Revolution, had awakened in him the first stirrings of ambition. Its immediate object was the chaplaincy to the Count de Montevesso’s various charitable foundations.

There was a man, one of the great of this world, whom, without understanding him in any deeper sense or ever trying to judge his nature, he could see plainly enough to be unhappy. And that was a great point. For the unhappy are more amenable to obscure influences, religious and others. But Father Carpi was too intelligent to intrude upon the griefs of that man with the mysterious past, either religious consolation or secular advice. For a long time now he had watched and waited, keeping his thoughts so secret that they seemed even hidden from himself. To the outbreaks of that rough, arrogant, contemptuous and oppressive temper he could oppose only the gravity of his sacerdotal character as Adèle did her lofty serenity, that detachment, both scornful and inaccessible, which seemed to place her on another plane.

Father Carpi had never been before confronted so directly by the difficulties of his position as at that very moment, and on the occasion of that intolerable and hopeless girl. To gain time he smiled, a slight, non-committal smile.

“We priests, Monsieur le Comte, are recommended not to enter into discussion of theological matters with people who, whatever their accomplishments and wisdom, are not properly instructed in them. As to anything else, I am always at monseigneur’s service.”

He gave this qualification to Count Helion because it was not beyond the bounds of respect due from a poor parish priest to a titled great man of his province.

“Have you been much about amongst the town people?” asked Count Helion.

“I go out every morning about seven to say Mass in that church you may have noticed near by. I have visited also once or twice an old friend from my seminary days, a priest of a poor parish here. We rejoice together at the return of the Holy Father to Rome. For the rest I had an idea, monseigneur, that you did not wish me to make myself prominent in any way in this town.”

“Perhaps I didn’t. It may be convenient, though, to know what are the rumours current amongst the populace. That class has its own thoughts. I suppose your friend would know something of that?”

“No doubt. But I can tell you, monseigneur, what the people think. They think that if they can’t be Genoese as before, they would rather be French than Piedmontese. That, monseigneur, is a general feeling even amongst the better class of citizens.”

“Much would they gain by it,” mumbled Count de Montevesso. “Unless the other were to come back. L’Abbé,” he added sharply, “is there any talk of him coming back?”

“That indeed would be a misfortune.” Father Carpi’s tone betrayed a certain emotion, which Count Helion noticed, faint as it was.

“Whatever happens, you will have always a friend in me,” he said, and Father Carpi acknowledged the assurance by a slight inclination of his body.

“Surely God would not allow it,” he murmured uneasily. But the stare of his interlocutor augmented his alarm. He was still more startled when he heard Count de Montevesso make the remark that the only thing which seemed to put a limit to the power of God was the folly of men. He had too poor an opinion of Count de Montevesso to be shocked by the blasphemy. To him it was only proof that the count had been very much upset by something, some fact or some news.

“And people are very foolish just now, both in Paris and in Vienna,” added Count de Montevesso after a long pause.

It was news then. Father Carpi betrayed nothing of his anxious curiosity. The inward unrest which pervaded the whole basin of the western Mediterranean was strongest in Italy perhaps, and was very strong in the heart of Father Carpi, who was both an Italian and a priest. Perhaps he would be told something! He almost held his breath, but Count de Montevesso took his head between his hands and said only:

“One is pestered by folly of all sorts. L’Abbé, see whether you can bring that child to reason.”

However low in the scale of humanity Father Carpi placed the Count de Montevesso, he never questioned his social position. Father Carpi was made furious by the request, but he obeyed. He approached the rustic bedstead, and looked at the occupant with sombre disgust. Nothing was obscure to him in the situation. If he could not tell exactly what devil possessed that creature, he remembered perfectly her mother, a rash sort of girl, who was found drowned years ago in a remarkably shallow pond amongst some rocks not quite a mile away from the presbytery. It might have been an accident. He had consented to bury her in consecrated ground, not from any compassion, but because of the revolutionary spirit which had penetrated even the thick skulls of his parishioners, and probably would have caused a riot and shaken the precarious power of the Church in his obscure valley. He stood erect by the head of the couch looking down at the girl’s uncovered eye, whose sombre iris swam on the glistening white. He could have laughed with contempt and fury. He regulated his deep voice so that it reached Count de Montevesso at the other side of the room only as a solemn admonishing murmur.

“You miserable little wretch,” he said, “can’t you behave yourself? You have been a torment to me for years.”

The sense of his own powerlessness overcame him so completely that he felt tempted for a moment to throw everything up, walk out of the room, seek refuge amongst sinners that would believe either in God or in the devil.

“You are a scourge to us all,” he continued in the same equable murmur. “If you don’t speak out, you little beast, and put an end to this scene soon, I will exorcise you.”

The only effect of that threat was the sudden immobility of the rolling eye. Father Carpi turned towards the count.

“It is probably some sort of malady,” he said coldly. “Perhaps a doctor could prescribe some remedy.”

Count Helion came out of his listless attitude. A moment ago a doctor was in the house in conference with M. le Marquis. Perhaps he was still there. Count Helion got up impetuously and asked the abbé to go along to the other side and find out.

“Take a light with you. All the lights are out down there. Knock at the marquis’s door and inquire from Bernard, and if the doctor is still there bring him along.”

Father Carpi went out hastily, and Count de Montevesso, keeping the women outside, paced the whole length of the room. The fellow called himself a doctor, whatever else he might have been. Whether he did any good to the child or not—Count de Montevesso stopped and looked fixedly at the bed—this was an extremely favourable opportunity to get in touch with him personally. Who could tell what use could be made of him in his other capacities, apart from the fact that he probably could really prescribe some remedy? Count de Montevesso’s heart was softened paternally. His progress from European barrack-rooms to an Eastern palace left on his mind a sort of bewilderment. He even thought the girl attractive. There she was, a prey of some sort of illness. He bent over her face and instantly a pair of thin bare arms darted from under the blankets and clasped him round the neck with a force that really surprised him. “That one loves me,” he thought. He did not know that she would have hung round anybody’s neck in the passion of obtaining what she wanted. He thought with a sort of dull insight that everybody was a little bit against her. He abandoned his neck to the passionate clasp for a little time, then disengaged himself gently.

“What makes you behave like this?” he asked. “Do you feel a pain anywhere?”

No emotion could change the harshness of his voice, but it was very low and there was an accent in it which the girl could not mistake. She sat up suddenly with her long wild hair covering her shoulders. With her round eyes, the predatory character of her face, the ruffled fury of her aspect, she looked like an angry bird; and there was something bird-like in the screech of her voice.

“Pain. No. But if I didn’t hate them so I would like to die. I would . . .”

Count de Montevesso put one hand at the back of her head and clapped the other broad palm over her mouth. This action surprised her so much that she didn’t even struggle. When the count took his hands away she remained silent without looking at him.

“Don’t scream like this,” he murmured harshly, but with obvious indulgence. “Your aunts are outside and they will tell the priest all about it.”

Clelia drew up her knees, clasped her hands round them outside the blanket and stared.

“It is just your temper?” suggested Count Helion reproachfully.

“All those dressed-up witches despise me. I am not frightened. And the worst of them is that yellow-haired witch, your wife. If I had gone in there in my bare feet they could not have stared more down on me. . . . I shall fly at their faces. I can read their thoughts as they put their glasses to their eyes. What animal is this? they seem to ask themselves. I am a brute beast to them.”

A shadow seemed to fall on Count de Montevesso’s face for the moment. Clelia unclasped her fingers, shook her fists at the empty space, then clasped her legs again. These movements full of sombre energy were observed silently by the Count de Montevesso. He uttered the word “Patienza,” which, in its humility, is the word of the ambitious, of the unforgiving, who keep a strict account with the world; a word of indomitable hope. “You wait till you are a little older. You will have plenty of people at your feet; and then you will be able to spurn anybody you like.”

“You mean when I am married,” said Clelia, in a far-away voice, and staring straight over her knees.

“Yes,” said the Count de Montevesso, “but you will first have to learn to be gentle.”

This recommendation apparently missed the ear for which it was destined. For a whole minute Clelia seemed to contemplate some sort of vision with her predatory and pathetic stare. One side of her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder. Suddenly she pushed her scattered hair back, and extending her arm towards Count Helion, patted him caressingly on the cheek.

When she had done patting him he asked unmoved: “Now, what is it you want?”

She was careful not to turn her face his way while she whispered: “I want that young signore that came to-day to make eyes at my aunt.”

“Impossible.”

“Why impossible? I was with them in the morning; they did nothing but look at each other. But I want him for myself.”

“That Englishman! You can’t have an Englishman like this. I am thinking of something better for you, a marquis or a count.”

This was the exact truth, not a sudden idea to meet a hopeless case.

“You have hardly had time to have a good look at him,” added Count Helion.

“I looked at him this evening with all my eyes, with all my soul. I would have sat up all night to look at him. But he got up and turned his back on me. He has no eyes for anybody but my aunt.”

“Did you speak together, you two?”

“Yes,” she said, “he sat down by me and all those witches stared as if he had been making up to a monster. Am I a monster? He too looked at me as if I had been one.”

“Was he rude to you?” asked the Count de Montevesso.

“He was as insolent as all the people I have seen since we came to this town. His heart was black as the heart of all the rest of them. He was gentle to me as one is gentle to an old beggar for the sake of charity. Oh, how I hated him.”

“Well, then,” said Count de Montevesso in a harsh unsympathetic tone, “you may safely despise him.”

Clelia threw herself half out of bed on the neck of Count Helion, who preserved an unsympathetic rigidity, though he did not actually repulse her wild and vehement caress.

“O, dearest uncle of mine,” she whispered ardently into his ear, “he is so handsome! I must have him for myself.”

There was a knocking at the door. Count Helion tore the bare arms from his neck and pushed the girl back into bed.

“Cover yourself up,” he commanded hurriedly. He arranged the blanket at her back. “Lie still and say nothing of all this, and then you need have no fear. But if you breathe a word of this to anybody, then . . . Come in,” he shouted to the renewed knocking, and had just time to shake his finger at Clelia menacingly before the abbé and the doctor entered the room.