XVIII
CORNÉLIE NO LONGER saw anyone but Duco. Mrs Van der Staal had fallen out with her and no longer wanted her daughters to see Cornélie socially. Relations had also cooled between mother and son. Cornélie saw no one but Duco, and occasionally Urania Hope. The American girl visited her from time to time and told her about Belloni: there was much talk about Cornélie and Duco and many comments on their relationship. Urania was glad to feel above hotel gossip, but still wanted to warn Cornélie. There was something spontaneous and friendly in her words, which Cornélie found sympathetic. But when Cornélie asked about the prince she fell silent and obviously did not want to say much. Then, after the court ball — where the queen really had worn the sequined brocade! — Urania visited Cornélie again and admitted over a cup of tea that she had promised the prince that morning to visit him at his residence. She said it quite simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Cornélie was alarmed and asked how on earth she could have promised such a thing …
“Why not?” replied Urania. “What’s wrong with it? I receive his visits … why should I, if he asks me to come and see his rooms — he lives in Palazzo Ruspoli — if he wants to show me some paintings, miniatures and antique lace … why should I refuse to go? Why should I make such a fuss about it? I’m above such petty-mindedness.
We American girls behave very freely with our gentlemen. And what about you? You walk with Mr Van der Staal, you dine and breakfast with him, you go on excursions with him, you go to his studio …”
“I’ve been married,” replied Cornélie. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. You have your parents … What you’re contemplating is rash and reckless … Tell, is the prince thinking … of marriage?”
“If I become a Catholic …”
“And …?”
“I think … I will … I’ve written to Chicago,” she said hesitantly.
She closed her lovely eyes for a moment and went pale as she had a vision of the title of princess-duchess.
“It’s just …” she began.
“What …?”
“Life won’t be much fun. The prince is one of the Blacks. They are in permanent mourning for the Pope. Scarcely anything happens in their coterie, no balls or parties. If we got married, I’d like him to come to America with me. His father is very proud, inaccessible and taciturn. I’ve heard that from various sides. What am I to do, Cornélie? I love Gilio very much; his name is Virgilio. And you know the title is an old Italian one: principe di Forte-Braccio, duca di San Stefano … But you see, that’s all there is, all. San Stefano is a hole. That’s where his papa lives. They sell wine and that is what they live on. And olive oiclass="underline" but they don’t make any money from it. My father manufactures stockings but he has made a fortune from it. They haven’t many family jewels. I’ve made inquiries … His cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla, the queen’s lady-in-waiting, is sweet … but we would not see her officially. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. It seems to me a rather boring prospect …”
Cornélie responded vehemently, burst out and repeated her slogans: against marriage in general and against this marriage in particular, purely for the sake of a title. Urania agreed: it was just a title … but it was also Gilio: he was sweet and she loved him. But Cornélie didn’t believe a word, and told her straight. Urania wept: she did not know what to do.
“And when were you supposed to visit your prince?”
“Tonight …”
“Don’t go.”
“No, no, you’re right, I won’t go.”
“Do you give me your word?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Don’t go, Urania.”
“No, I won’t go. You are a dear girl. You’re right: I won’t go. I swear to you I won’t go …”
XIX
BUT THERE HAD BEEN SUCH VAGUENESS in Urania’s assurances, that Cornélie felt uneasy and that evening talked to Duco about it in the restaurant where they met. But he was not interested, in Urania, what she did or did not do, and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. But she was silent and withdrawn and did not hear what he said: a side panel of a triptych, definitely by Lippo Memmi, which he had discovered in a shop down by the Tiber: the angel of the Annunciation, almost as beautiful as the one in the Uffizi, kneeling in the last sweep of his flight, with the lily stalk in his hands. But the shopkeeper wanted two hundred lire for it and he was only prepared to offer fifty. And yet the dealer had not mentioned the name of Memmi: he had no idea that the angel was by Memmi …
Cornélie had not been listening and suddenly she said,
“I’m going to Palazzo Ruspoli …”
He looked up in surprise.
“Why?”
“To ask for Miss Hope.”
He was speechless with amazement and stared at her open-mouthed.
“If she’s not there …” Cornélie went on, “then it’s all right. If she’s there … if she went after all, then I’ll ask to speak to her urgently …”
He did not know what to say, finding her impulse so strange, so eccentric, so futile a twisting arabesque to cross the arabesques of insignificant, indifferent people, that he was at a loss for words. Cornélie looked at her watch.
“It’s past eight-thirty. If she goes after all, she’ll go about this time.”
She motioned to the waiter and paid. She buttoned her coat and got up. He followed her.
“Cornélie,” he began, “isn’t what you’re proposing to do rather odd? It’ll get you into all sorts of trouble.”
“If we were always deterred by a bit of trouble, no one would ever do a good deed.”
They walked on in silence, he angry at her side. They did not talk: he thought what she was planning was simply crazy: she thought he was weak for not wanting to protect Urania. She thought of her pamphlet, of Women, and she wanted to protect Urania from marriage, from that prince. And they walked down the Corso, towards Palazzo Ruspoli. He became nervous, made a last attempt to restrain her, but she was already asking the guard:
“Is the signore principe at home?”
The man looked at her suspiciously.
“No,” he said brusquely.
“I have a feeling he is. If so, please ask whether Miss Hope is with his Excellency. Miss Hope was not at home; I have a feeling that she is coming to visit the prince this evening and I need to speak to her urgently … on a matter that cannot be put off. Here … la signora De Retz …” She presented her card. She spoke with such aplomb, portrayed Urania’s visit with such calm and simplicity, as if it happened every evening that American girls visited Italian princes, and as if she were convinced that the guard was acquainted with the custom. The man was completely non-plussed, bowed, took the card and withdrew. Cornélie and Duco waited in the gateway.