Read CHAPTER XVII - THE BARONS ASSAULTS of The American Baron, free online book, by James De Mille, on ReadCentral.com.

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!”