Murietta had thrown back his great Italian cloak in which he was nearly enveloped, pushed back the broad-brimmed artist's hat from his brow, brushed the long yellow hair with a sweep of the hand back over his shoulders, and was standing there flushed in the face with excitement, and delighted with the scene. It was the first time for many a day that he had even touched the outer edge of the fairer world, and his soul was hungry, was starving for beauty, symathy, song, and all the better things of life that go to make it tolerable.
"Pa! Pa! There stands the living likeness of dear Murietta!"
Pa put up his glasses, looked and looked, and even turned in his seat, as the carriage spun on around in the great little drive on the Pincian Hill, and still looked back over his shoulder. And then Mollie half stood up in the carriage, and waved her parasol and shouted in the hope of catching the eye of this living likeness; and then she stretched her neck as the carriage spun on around and rose up again; and half a dozen gallant Itallans sprang forward to save her, to rescue her, to restore her to her parents — for themselves — in case she should fall; but still the artist did not see the sunny face of Mollie Wopsus, and he only gathered his cloak closer about him and moved a little way forward and nearer to the line of passing carriages.
Suddenly there was a parasol poked in his face from a carriage that was whirling by, as if he had been an enemy entrenched on the Pincian Hill and this armed Amazon had come in a chariot to drive him from the battlements in a sort of charge of bayonets.
Murietta started back. The armed Amazon poked the footman in the back with her parasol; the footman poked the coachman in the ribs with his elbow; the coachman pulled his reins, and the carriage spun out of line and rested on the parapet overlooking the great Piazza del Popolo.
"You bet it's him! I know him by his back!"
Papa again put up his glasses, and proested that she was mistaken.
"Don't you think I know sardines?"
Again the bright-faced Califomian girl poked the footman in the back, and this time pointed with her parasol a turn to the left. The footman poked the coachman, and the coachman made a sharp turn, while two handsome officers stood at the head of the horses to see that no accident happened; and it seemed half the officers of the Italian army crowded about as a body-guard to Mollie Wopsus.
"Booh"cried the lively and lightearted Mollie as she thrust out with her bayonet and poked the pensive artist in the back with the point of it.
The officers sprang forward in a platoon to catch the lively little Amazon in case she should spill from the carriage; but she brushed them aside with her bayonet and shouted aloud to the artist who was just now turning about to see what it all meant.
"Oh my eye! Oh my eye! Don't look this way! don't! don't! Don't know a body, do you?" She put up her hands, parasol and all, and laughed and pretended to try to hide her face; and then she reached out and put her arms about the artist's neck and pulled him in towards the carriage, and pushed and leaned and reached till all the army of polite officers came up again to the rescue, and stood there expecting every moment to see her spill herself to the ground.
"Well now, you are the worst! And when did you come? And where did you go? And where are you now? And where will you be? and how have you been "
The Californian girl paused for breath as the artist shook General Wopsus by the hand in that easy and careless way of the West which showed that the two men were at least old campaigners, if not old friends.
Then leaning her head towards Marietta, she said in a sort of shrill whisper,
"Do you see those fellows in buttons? All these here, thick enough to stir 'em with a stick, aren't they?" And here she made a movement with her parasol as if she was stirring them up very lively. "Well, them's my lovers! All them my lovers; just think of it! And — look here!" she bent her head again towards the artist, "What do you think? They're princes and counts and marquises and dukes and barons and earls, and everything! besides being officers, you see? You bet you!" She turned her head, held out her parasol sociably as if to receive on the point of it a bold officer who looked as if he was about to make a charge upon the carriage, and continued,
"Yes — and I'm going to Court too! And I'm going with a prince! Bet your life! a prince — a real live prince! What would they say to Mollie Wopsus now, I wonder, in Mexico or California, eh?"
The lively little Mollie thrust out her parasol in the direction in which she suposed Mexico and California to be, as if she would run them through for some old slight or another; and then again dropping her head to the artist, whispered in a high pitched key,
"And I've got a real lover too, Mr. Murietta, a count and an officer, with the brightest sword and epaulettes, and belts and buttons and things! And oh! Papa won't let us get married, you know, at all, at all, because he has not yet come into possession of his castle, — an old, old uncle, you know, who keeps living on and living on and living on just for spite you know. And then," and here the little head fell pathetically to one side and the lively girl grew very serious and sentimental, "and then he's so mean to Count Paolini, don't you know? and the count being a gentlman can't at all get on with his pay, for it is not enough for a gentleman to live upon. And so, you see-"she looked slyly up and out to one side to see if Pa was listening "and so you see I divide with him, I do! Oh, it's so nice! Better than a novel, ain't it?"
Murietta smiled; and the full-hearted artless, happy girl went on —
"And oh, don't you like Rome? And oh, ain't it such a pretty place to buy jewellery? And then, such handsome men you know! and they are so polite, and then only to think — only to be surrounded all the time by dukes and princes, and counts and barons! I declare, Mr. Murietta, I'm ashamed, heartily ashamed, of being only a general's daughter."
"Ah, but, Miss Wopsus, when you marry the count, that will be changed, you know!"
"When I do! Yes, yes, indeed it will, and the sooner the quicker, say I! You see this don't last always. I know whole stacks of American girls who are coming over here next year — and this thing won't keep you know! These dukes and counts and barons and marquises will all be married you know. And then, then what will become of Mollie Wopsus?" She buried her face in her hands and slowly shook her headi. "if I don't get Count Paolini I shall die! I shall die, and be buried in the cold, cold ground, and-" Here the music struck up to its highest and final note; and the horses began to plunge and prance, and the carriage began to move. Mollie kissed her hand as the general reached his, to Murietta.
"Yes, I shall die, shall die — And oh! You must dine with us today, and I declare I am real hungry at the thought of dinner! How a fellow can eat in Rome! and-"
The carriage was whirled away and the pleasant words of the light-hearted and honest Californian girl were spilled down in the tumult, and trodden under the feet of the plunging and prancing horses, and lost.
Murietta's heart was made lighter by this young woman whom he had met often before in the far West, and gathering his cloak about him he was sauntering away with his eyes turned to the dome of St. Peter's away across the northern edge of Rome and beyond the Tiber.
As he reached the edge of the crowd a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned and the hand was reached in token of friendship.
"I am rough but honest, a man who carries his heart in his hand. Shake hands, I am a man of the world; you are an artist. You dream, I work. Come, we can be of use to each other as friends. We can destroy each other as enemies. Let us be wise. It is best to be friends."
His hand was reached out. Murietta drew back and wrapped his cloak closer about him.
"What if I prefer to be enemies?"
"Ha! ha! just what I was saying! You are a dreamer! Well, there is no occasion for being enemies, none in the least; and, in fact, there is but little occasion for being friends. I only want to ask you a question or two about a certain young lady with whom I just now saw you conversing in a most friendly manner."
The admiral took out a large note book from his breast pocket, and began to scan a list of names, with figures, dates, addresses, and the like, set opposite them. He stopped reading a moment, tapped the leather noteook with his fingers as if it had been a kind of instrument on which he was about to play a tune, and then, stepping closer to the side of the artist, and looking carefully about to see that no one was listening, went on—
"I am a blunt and open-hearted man, a rough but honest sailor — Ah! you smile at this! But if you come to know me you will say at last, ay! you will inscribe it upon my tombstone, 'The admiral was a rough but an honest man.' Well, as I was saying," Here the fingers played up and down the back of the leather note book as if they were about to begin the tune. "as I was saying, I am a blunt, honest man, and if I tell you why I want to know these things, and you see nothing wrong in it, will you not tell me?"
"Well, yes." said the artist, half sullenly, and gathering his cloak still closer up under his chin.
"Then I proceed to explain." The fingers again played a tattoo up and down the back of the leather note book, and the admiral, looking again over his shoulder to be doubly sure that no one was listening, went on.
"In the first place you, you, Murietta, ought to belong to my association. You have a reputation. Well, reputation is money. Fame is money. Title is money. The name of a count is worth so much in market. A duke so much. A marquis so much. A general so much, and so on. Well, the name of an illustrious painter is worth, — let me see"— the fingers again ran up and down the imaginary keys on the back of the leather note book "is worth, say — well! say a quarter of a million francs."
Murietta loosened his cloak a little from under his chin and relaxed his features. He was getting interested to know what this mysterious, half-hideous man was drivng at.
"You follow me?"
"Yes."
"You are interested, then."
"Yes."
"Well, you are poor."
"Certainly, if that is any of your busiess."
"No offence — no offence. I am a blunt but honest man, and only want to feel my way across the ground as I proceed." The fingers again tapped and danced along the back of the note book. "Now we come to the pith and core of the question. Thouands of young ladies pour into this country every year from America, and also from England. They are the cream of the country, and particularly from America, are the wealthiest and best of the land. Of course they are vulgar, very loud and very vulgar, but then they are also very rich. Well, you follow me."
"Yes."
"Good. These girls, vulgar but rich, come here in nine cases out of ten to get married. That is their business. They have no other. Particularly those from America are here for that purpose, and that purpose alone. They know nothing about art; they care less. They would give more to look upon the face of a single member of a royal family than to see all the works of Michael Angelo or Da Vinci."
"Well, suppose what you say is the truth, what of it?" Murietta was again gathering up his cloak and contracting his brows.
"That is it, that is. Now we come to the point." He again tapped and tattooed on the back of the note book. "Put this and that together, and you will understand. These girls, these vulgar but wealthy woen from the West, are here to get husbands. Shall they be disappointed? No! A gallant man will not willingly see a lady disappointed. I am a gallant man. I have set my heart to assist them in this matter. I go about doing good in sllence. They do not know, do not dream, how I am assisting them, in their efforts to get what they have crossed the seas to obtain."
"I do not understand you at all."
"Look here! read these names. I am a blunt and an honest man — a man who carries his heart in his hand. I have nohing whatever to conceal. Read these."
The admiral handed the book to the artist, and struck an attitude before him as if he would sit for the personification of simple innocence.
Murietta glanced down a long list of names nich addresses, dates, and figures opposite them.
"There!" The admiral pointed to the name of Mollie Wopsus. "There! Now what sum shall we set opposite? In other words what is she worth? She comes here to be married like the others. She, like the others, wants a title. Very well. These titled gentlemen are my friends. They are not to be imposed upon. Now, sir, she wants a title. She is easily caught, too easily; we are afraid of her. We cannot find out what she is worth. She comes from too remote a quarter. We have agents in New York, in Boston, in Chicago, who keep us informed here and in Paris, and in all great cities of the continent, and we know oftentimes better than the father himelf knows, what his daughter is worth. But here, sir, we are in a dilemma. Now you know this young lady. You not only know what she is worth, but, should she prove to be wealthy, you can materially assist her, assist her, mark you, in a most gallant and disinterested way, to procure a husband. There! there! pardon me," said the old admiral, catching his breath and reaching out and taking his book, and again tapping the tattoo on its back. "Pardon me, sir, but I hope I have now proved to you that I have no secrets at all in this matter from gentlemen, from gentlemen, mark you. And now, sir, what sum shall we set against the name of the vivacious Miss Mollie Wopsus "
"Let me look at that book again."
The artist reached his hand with an air of authority. He turned a leaf, looked up and down the lines of names there, and read that of Annette.
He threw the book in the man's face, and stepping back, loosened his cloak as if to strike, if followed, after the fashion of his country. The admiral picked up his noteook and smiled.
"I have a mind to tumble you over that parapet"
"Just as I was saying— just as I remarked before." And the fingers tattooed again up and down the note book. "You are a dreamer. You do nothing but dream. Do you suppose I like this business better than you do? No. A man must eat. A gentleman must have money. Come. The lady wants a title. Is she able to pay for it?"
"You gray-headed old villain! What if I should tell this to the world"
"Tell it? Tell it? There is nothing to tell. This which we do is no secret. Every gentleman in Paris, every gentleman in Germany, every gentleman in Italy — that is, gentlemen who are unfortunate enough to be without fortune — belongs to our association. We are a society. We are a band of brothers. We are more than a thousand strong. When one marriage is consummated and a fortune secured, that fortune must go in part to the general fund for the purchase of clothes, jewels, crests, and other things necessary to catch the eye of the ladies from out the West. Tell it! ha, ha!" The fingers again ran up and down the leather keysi. "Why, do you see those gentlemen walking up and down there before the lines of carriage ? Well, those gentlemen all have a list like this. These same names, dates, figures, are down in their books just as in my own. We are hesitating about this one name. Tell it? ha, ha! But please don't tell any ladies here. The Italian dagger still retains its point. Tell it! Bah! These thousand gentlemen forming one association know it already, and as for the world, it will not believe you." And the fingers again tapped the book. "Come, I have been blunt, but honest. Just as I told you, you will find me to the end. I am a practical man. I am an old man, too. I know perfectly well what I am about, and see no more harm in this trade than in any other transaction in connnerce."
He took off his glove, drew out a pencil, raised it to the open book, and began to write.
"Come! be as honest with me as I have been with you. What sum shall we set opposite to the name of the lively Miss Mollie Wopsus?"
Murietta seemed to have a sudden inspiation. He drew his cloak closer up under his chin and said through his teeth :
"Ten million francs."
The admiral wrote the figures down with as much coolness as if he had been entering a note of the weather. As he wrote, Muritta noticed that the ends of his fingers were stained and yellow, as if burned by acids. He remained no longer, but left the man writing in his leather note book, and melted away in the crowd.
Start reading Chapter 21 ofThe One Fair Lady