On the eventful afternoon when the
Baron had effected an entrance into the heart of the
enemy’s country, another caller had come there one
equally intent and equally determined, but not quite
so aggressive. This was the Count Girasole.
The same answer was given to him which had been given
to the Baron, but with far different effect. The
Baron had carelessly brushed the slight obstacle aside.
To the Count it was an impenetrable barrier.
It was a bitter disappointment, too; for he had been
filled with the brightest hopes and expectations by
the reception with which he had met on his last visit.
That reception had made him believe that they had
changed their sentiments and their attitude toward
him, and that for the future he would be received in
the same fashion. He had determined, therefore,
to make the most of this favorable change, and so
he at once repeated his call. This time, however,
his hopes were crushed. What made it worse, he
had seen the entrance of the Baron and the Reverend
Saul, and knew by this that instead of being a favored
mortal in the eyes of these ladies, he was really,
in their estimation, placed below these comparative
strangers. By the language of Lord Hawbury on
his previous call, he knew that the acquaintance of
the Baron with Mrs. Willoughby was but recent.
The disappointment of the Count filled
him with rage, and revived all his old feelings and
plans and projects. The Count was not one who
could suffer in silence. He was a crafty, wily,
subtle, scheming Italian, whose fertile brain was
full of plans to achieve his desires, and who preferred
to accomplish his aims by a tortuous path, rather
than by a straight one. This repulse revived old
projects, and he took his departure with several little
schemes in his mind, some of which, at least, were
destined to bear fruit afterward.
On the following day the Baron called
once more. The ladies in the mean time had talked
over the situation, but were unable to see what they
were to do with a man who insisted on forcing his way
into their house. Their treatment would have
been easy enough if it had not been for Minnie.
She insisted that they should not be unkind to him.
He had saved her life, she said, and she could not
treat him with rudeness. Lady Dalrymple was in
despair, and Mrs. Willoughby at her wit’s end,
while Ethel, to whom the circumstance was made known,
was roused by it from her sadness, and tried to remonstrate
with Minnie. All her efforts, however, were as
vain as those of her friends. Minnie could not
be induced to take any decided stand. She insisted
on seeing him whenever he called, on the ground that
it would be unkind not to.
“And will you insist on seeing
Girasole also?” asked Mrs. Willoughby.
“I don’t know. I’m awfully
sorry for him,” said Minnie.
“Well, then, Captain Kirby will
be here next. Of course you will see him?”
“I suppose so,” said Minnie, resignedly.
“And how long do you think this
sort of thing can go on? They’ll meet,
and blood will be shed.”
“Oh dear! I’m afraid so.”
“Then I’m not going to
allow it. I’ve telegraphed to papa.
He’ll see whether you are going to have your
own way or not.”
“I’m sure I don’t see what dear
papa can do.”
“He won’t let you see those horrid men.”
“He won’t be cruel enough
to lock me up in the house. I do wish he would
come and take me away. I don’t want them.
They’re all horrid.”
“This last one this Gunn is
the most terrible man I ever saw.”
“Oh, Kitty dearest! How
can you say so? Why, his rudeness and
violence are perfectly irresistible. He’s
charming. He bullies one so deliciously.”
Mrs. Willoughby at this turned away in despair.
Minnie’s very peculiar situation
was certainly one which required a speedy change.
The forced entrance of the Baron had thrown consternation
into the family. Ethel herself had been roused,
and took a part in the debate. She began to see
Minnie in a new light, and Hawbury’s attention
to her began to assume the appearance of a very mournful
joke. To her mind Minnie was now the subject of
desperate attention from five men.
Thus:
1. Lord Hawbury.
2. Count Girasole.
3. Scone Dacres.
4. Baron Atramonte.
5. Captain Kirby, of whom Mrs.
Willoughby had just told her.
And of these, four had saved her life,
and consequently had the strongest possible claims
on her.
And the only satisfaction which Ethel
could gain out of this was the thought that Hawbury,
at least, had not saved Minnie’s life.
And now to proceed.
The Baron called, as has been said,
on the following day. This time he did not bring
the Reverend Saul with him. He wished to see Minnie
alone, and felt the presence of third persons to be
rather unpleasant.
On reaching the place he was told,
as before, that the ladies were not at home.
Now the Baron remembered that on the
preceding day the servant had said the same, while
all the time the ladies were home. He was charitably
inclined to suppose that it was a mistake, and not
a deliberate lie; and, as he was in a frame of good-will
to mankind, he adopted this first theory.
“All right, young man,”
said he; “but as you lied yesterday under
a mistake I prefer seeing for myself to-day.”
So the Baron brushed by the servant,
and went in. He entered the room. No one
was there. He waited a little while, and thought.
He was too impatient to wait long. He could not
trust these lying servants. So he determined
to try for himself. Her room was up stairs, somewhere
in the story above.
So he went out of the room, and up
the stairs, until his head was on a level with the
floor of the story above. Then he called:
“Min!”
No answer.
“MIN!” in a louder voice.
No answer.
“MIN! it’s ME!” still louder.
No answer.
“MIN!” a perfect yell.
At this last shout there was a response.
One of the doors opened, and a lady made her appearance,
while at two other doors appeared two maids.
The lady was young and beautiful, and her face was
stern, and her dark eyes looked indignantly toward
the Baron.
“Who are you?” she asked, abruptly; “and
what do you want?”
“Me? I’m the Baron
Atramonte; and I want Min. Don’t you know
where she is?”
“Who?”
“Min.”
“Min?” asked the other, in amazement.
“Yes. My Min Minnie, you know.
Minnie Fay.”
At this the lady looked at the Baron with utter horror.
“I want her.”
“She’s not at home,” said the lady.
“Well, really, it’s too bad. I must
see her. Is she out?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Honor bright now?”
The lady retired and shut the door.
“Well, darn it all, you needn’t
be so peppery,” muttered the Baron. “I
didn’t say any thing. I only asked a civil
question. Out, hey? Well, she must be this
time. If she’d been in, she’d have
made her appearance. Well, I’d best go
out and hunt her up. They don’t seem to
me altogether so cordial as I’d like to have
them. They’re just a leetle too ’ristocratic.”
With these observations to himself,
the Baron descended the stairs, and made his way to
the door. Here he threw an engaging smile upon
the servant, and made a remark which set the other
on the broad grin for the remainder of the day.
After this the Baron took his departure.
The Baron this time went to some stables,
and reappeared in a short time mounted upon a gallant
steed, and careering down the Corso. In due time
he reached the Piazza del Popolo, and
then he ascended the Pincian Hill. Here he rode
about for some time, and finally his perseverance
was rewarded. He was looking down from the summit
of the hill upon the Piazza below, when he caught
sight of a barouche, in which were three ladies.
One of these sat on the front seat, and her white
face and short golden hair seemed to indicate to him
the one he sought.
In an instant he put spurs to his
horse, and rode down the hill as quick as possible,
to the great alarm of the crowds who were going up
and down. In a short time he had caught up with
the carriage. He was right. It was the right
one, and Minnie was there, together with Lady Dalrymple
and Mrs. Willoughby. The ladies, on learning of
his approach, exhibited no emotion. They were
prepared for this, and resigned. They had determined
that Minnie should have no more interviews with him
indoors; and since they could not imprison her altogether,
they would have to submit for the present to his advances.
But they were rapidly becoming desperate.
Lord Hawbury was riding by the carriage
as the Baron came up.
“Hallo!” said he to the
former. “How do? and how are you
all? Why, I’ve been hunting all over creation.
Well, Minnie, how goes it? Feel lively?
That’s right. Keep out in the open air.
Take all the exercise you can, and eat as hard as
you can. You live too quiet as a general thing,
and want to knock around more. But we’ll
fix all that, won’t we, Min, before a month
of Sundays?”
The advent of the Baron in this manner,
and his familiar address to Minnie, filled Hawbury
with amazement. He had been surprised at finding
him with the ladies on the previous day, but there
was nothing in his demeanor which was at all remarkable.
Now, however, he noticed the very great familiarity
of his tone and manner toward Minnie, and was naturally
amazed. The Baron had not confided to him his
secret, and he could not understand the cause of such
intimacy between the representatives of such different
classes. He therefore listened with inexpressible
astonishment to the Baron’s language, and to
Minnie’s artless replies.
Minnie was sitting on the front seat
of the barouche, and was alone in that seat.
As the gentlemen rode on each side of the carriage
her face was turned toward them. Hawbury rode
back, so that he was beside Lady Dalrymple; but the
Baron rode forward, on the other side, so as to bring
himself as near to Minnie as possible. The Baron
was exceedingly happy. His happiness showed itself
in the flush of his face, in the glow of his eyes,
and in the general exuberance and all-embracing swell
of his manner. His voice was loud, his gestures
demonstrative, and his remarks were addressed by turns
to each one in the company. The others soon gave
up the attempt to talk, and left it all to the Baron.
Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby exchanged glances
of despair. Hawbury still looked on in surprise,
while Minnie remained perfectly calm, perfectly self-possessed,
and conversed with her usual simplicity.
As the party thus rode on they met
a horseman, who threw a rapid glance over all of them.
It was Girasole. The ladies bowed, and Mrs. Willoughby
wished that he had come a little before, so that he
could have taken the place beside the carriage where
the Baron now was. But the place was now appropriated,
and there was no chance for the Count. Girasole
threw a dark look over them, which rested more particularly
on Hawbury. Hawbury nodded lightly at the Count,
and didn’t appear to take any further notice
of him. All this took up but a few moments, and
the Count passed on.
Shortly after they met another horseman.
He sat erect, pale, sad, with a solemn, earnest glow
in his melancholy eyes. Minnie’s back was
turned toward him, so that she could not see his face,
but his eyes were fixed upon Mrs. Willoughby.
She looked back at him and bowed, as did also Lady
Dalrymple. He took off his hat, and the carriage
rolled past. Then he turned and looked after
it, bareheaded, and Minnie caught sight of him, and
smiled and bowed. And then in a few moments more
the crowd swallowed up Scone Dacres.
The Baron thus enjoyed himself in
a large, exuberant fashion, and monopolized the conversation
in a large, exuberant way. He outdid himself.
He confided to the ladies his plans for the regeneration
of the Roman Church and the Roman State. He told
stories of his adventures in the Rocky Mountains.
He mentioned the state of his finances, and his prospects
for the future. He was as open, as free, and
as communicative as if he had been at home, with fond
sisters and admiring brothers around him. The
ladies were disgusted at it all; and by the ladies
I mean only Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple.
For Minnie was not she actually listened
in delight. It was not conventional. Very
well. Neither was the Baron. And for that
matter, neither was she. He was a child of nature.
So was she. His rudeness, his aggressiveness,
his noise, his talkativeness, his egotism, his confidences
about himself all these did not make him
so very disagreeable to her as to her sister and aunt.
So Minnie treated the Baron with the
utmost complaisance, and Hawbury was surprised, and
Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple were disgusted;
but the Baron was delighted, and his soul was filled
with perfect joy. Too soon for him was this drive
over. But the end came, and they reached the
hotel. Hawbury left them, but the Baron lingered.
The spot was too sweet, the charm too dear he
could not tear himself away.
In fact, he actually followed the
ladies into the house.
“I think I’ll just make
myself comfortable in here, Min, till you come down,”
said the Baron. And with these words he walked
into the reception-room, where he selected a place
on a sofa, and composed himself to wait patiently
for Minnie to come down.
So he waited, and waited, and waited but
Minnie did not come. At last he grew impatient.
He walked out, and up the stairs, and listened.
He heard ladies’ voices.
He spoke.
“Min!”
No answer.
“MIN!” louder.
No answer.
“MIN! HALLO-O-O-O!”
No answer.
“MIN!” a perfect shout.
At this a door was opened violently,
and Mrs. Willoughby walked out. Her cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes glanced fire.
“Sir,” she said, “this
is intolerable! You must be intoxicated.
Go away at once, or I shall certainly have you turned
out of the house.”
And saying this she went back, shut the door, and
locked it.
The Baron was thunder-struck.
He had never been treated so in his life. He
was cut to the heart. His feelings were deeply
wounded.
“Darn it!” he muttered.
“What’s all this for? I ain’t
been doing any thing.”
He walked out very thoughtfully.
He couldn’t understand it at all. He was
troubled for some time. But at last his buoyant
spirit rose superior to this temporary depression.
To-morrow would explain all, he thought. Yes,
to-morrow would make it all right. To-morrow he
would see Min, and get her to tell him what in thunder
the row was. She’d have to tell, for he
could never find out. So he made up his mind to
keep his soul in patience.
That evening Hawbury was over at the
Baron’s quarters, by special invitation, and
the Baron decided to ask his advice. So in the
course of the evening, while in the full, easy, and
confidential mood that arises out of social intercourse,
he told Hawbury his whole story beginning
with the account of his first meeting with Minnie,
and his rescue of her, and her acceptance of him, down
to this very day, when he had been so terribly snubbed
by Mrs. Willoughby. To all this Hawbury listened
in amazement. It was completely new to him.
He wondered particularly to find another man who had
saved the life of this quiet, timid little girl.
The Baron asked his advice, but Hawbury
declined giving any. He said he couldn’t
advise any man in a love-affair. Every man must
trust to himself. No one’s advice could
be of any avail. Hawbury, in fact, was puzzled,
but he said the best he could. The Baron himself
was fully of Hawbury’s opinion. He swore
that it was truth, and declared the man that followed
another’s advice in a love-affair was a “darned
fool that didn’t deserve to win his gal.”
There followed a general conversation
on things of a different kind. The Baron again
discoursed on church and state. He then exhibited
some curiosities. Among other things a skull.
He used it to hold his tobacco. He declared that
it was the skull of an ancient Roman. On the
inside was a paper pasted there, on which he had written
the following:
“Oh, I’m
the skull of a Roman bold
That fit
in the ancient war;
From East to West I
bore the flag
Of S. P.
Q. and R.
“In East and West,
and North and South,
We made
the nations fear us
Both Nebuchadnezzar
and Hannibal,
And Pharaoh
too, and Pyrrhus.
“We took their
statutes from the Greeks,
And lots
of manuscripts too;
We set adrift on his
world-wide tramp
The original
wandering Jew.
“But at last the
beggarly Dutchman came,
With his
lager and sauerkraut;
And wherever that beggarly
Dutchman went
He made
a terrible rout.
“Wo ist
der Deutscher’s Vaterland?
Is it near
the ocean wild?
Is it where the feathery
palm-trees grow?
Not there,
not there, my child.
“But it’s
somewhere down around the Rhine;
And now
that Bismarck’s come,
Down goes Napoleon to
the ground,
And away
goes the Pope from Rome!”