The Lady in the Car

Tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon her shoulder. For a moment he held her closely to him. Then, in a faltering voice, he said:

“Angelica, I know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part.”

“No! no!” she cried through her tears. “No. Do not leave me here alone, Jack! If you go from Florence I must return to the hateful semi-imprisonment of the Palace at Sarajevo among those dull boors with whom I have not the least in common.”

“But, Angelica, I am in honour bound not to compromise you further. Your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that have already reached the Prince’s ears. Hence his spies are here, watching all our movements.”

“Spies! Yes, Bosnia is full of them!” she cried angrily. “And Ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!” and she clenched her tiny white hands resentfully.

“They are here, hence we must part. We must face our misfortune bravely; but for your sake I must leave your side, though heaven knows what this decision has cost me – my very life and soul.”

She raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face.

At that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang quickly apart. But just as they did so a tall, well-dressed, brown-bearded man came into view. Both held their breath, for no doubt he had seen her in Jack’s arms.

The man was the Marquis Giulio di San Rossore, a Roman nobleman, who was a friend of her husband the Prince. But that he was her secret enemy she well knew. Only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before her, and declared his love to her. But she had spurned and scorned him in indignation. He heard her biting words in silence, and had turned away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the fierce Italian spirit of revenge within his heart.

But he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which the cultured son of the south generally assumes.

“They have sent me to try and find you, your Highness,” he said. “The Duchess of Spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the earthquake down in Calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your patronage.”

And he glanced at the Princess’s companion with fierce jealousy. He had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her head upon his shoulder.

“Let us go back, Mr Cross,” her Highness said, “I would like to hear details of what is proposed.”

And all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still assembled gossiping with the Countess Von Wilberg and Countess Lahovary.

As they walked together, the Marquess Giulio chuckled to himself at the discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell that night at the Florence Club.

The truth was proved. The penniless Englishman was the Princess’s lover! Florence had suspected it, but now it should know it.

That same night, after dinner, Jack was standing alone with the Princess in the gorgeous salon with its gilt furniture and shaded electric lights. He looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the Rue de la Paix. Upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal heirlooms that were once the property of Catherine the Great, and in her corsage a splendid true-lover’s knot in diamonds, the ornament from which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross decoration, which marked her as an Imperial Archduchess. The cross was absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side.

Her two female companions were in the adjoining room. They knew well their royal mistress’s attraction towards the young Englishman, and never sought to intrude upon them. Both were well aware of the shameful sham of the Princess’s marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness.

“But, Jack!” her Highness was saying, her pale face raised to his. “You really don’t mean to go? You can’t mean that!”

“Yes, Angelica,” was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly, drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes. “I must go – to save your honour.”

“No, no!” she cried, clinging to him convulsively. “You must not – you shall not! Think, if you go I shall be friendless and alone! I couldn’t bear it.”

“I know. It may seem cruel to you. But in after years you will know that I broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake,” he said very slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words. “You know full well the bitter truth, Angelica – just as well as I do,” he went on in a low whisper. “You know how deeply, how fervently I love you, how I am entirely and devotedly yours.”

“Yes, yes. I know, Jack,” she cried, clinging to him. “And I love you. You are the only man for whom I have ever entertained a single spark of affection. But love is forbidden to me. Ah! yes I know! Had I been a commoner and not a princess, and we had met, I should have found happiness, like other women. But alas! I am accursed by my noble birth, and love and happiness can never be mine – never!”

“We love each other, Angelica,” whispered the man who was a thief, softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his shoulder. “Let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other through our lives. No man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than I love you.”

“And no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion than I love you, Jack – my own dear Jack,” she said.

Their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long passionate caress. It was the first time he had kissed her upon the lips – their kiss, alas! of long farewell.

“Good-bye, my love. Farewell,” he whispered hoarsely. “Though parted from you in the future I shall be yours always – always. Remember me – sometimes.”

“Remember you!” she wailed. “How can I ever forget?”

“No, dear heart,” he whispered. “Do not forget, remember – remember that we love each other – that I shall love you always – always. Farewell!”

Again he bent and kissed her lips. They were cold. She stood immovable. The blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses.

Once more he pressed his hot lips to hers.

“May Providence protect and help us both, my beloved,” he whispered, and then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her.

He caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his habit ever since he had known her.

Then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself, and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone.

“Jack! My Jack!” she gasped. “Gone!” and grasping the edge of the table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her.

Her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair.

Jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest, and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young life for ever.

Outside, a young Tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was singing in a fine clear voice one of the old Florentine stornelli– those same love-songs sung in the streets of the Lily City ever since the Middle Ages. She listened:

Fiorin di mela!
La mela è dolce e la sua buccia è amara,
L’uomo gli è finto e la donna sincera.

Fior di limone!
Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:
Il giuoco, l’amicizia, e il primo amore!

Fior di licore!
Licore è forte e non si può incannare;
Ma son più forti le pene d’amore.

She held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself up to a paroxysm of grief and despair.

Six weeks later.

Grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm Mediterannean, the waters of which lazily lapped the golden shingle. Behind the distant blue the yellow sun was just peeping forth. At a spot upon the seashore about four miles from Leghorn, in the direction of the Maremma, five men had assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to Rome, stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there.

The motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to seek.

The men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the brown-bearded Marquess Giulio di San Rossore, and Prince Albert.

The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile, scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure and unhappy woman.