# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 57

CHAPTER XI.
"Oh, you know he does not dare say his soul is his own before his wife." Treatise on Ordinary Experience.
Caterina Pachetti had been a very pretty women, which she remembered more to her own edification than to that of her friends. Whether from design or destiny, she had not married till youth was something on the decline, and then to a man some years her junior. Signor Pachetti was not at that time the rich man he afterwards became: of this his wife did not fail often to remind him. She forgot she had married from desperation rather than disinterestedness. There are two motives to every action, and two versions of every story. He had then had no dealings with conspirators. The opinions which attracted the attention of some of the Carbonari's agents towards him were confined to striking the barber with horror, and the macaroni-seller with dismay. ​His opinions were now altered, because he acted upon them. His conversations changed with his connexions; and it was impossible to find an individual less liberal in word or action than the secret and trusted agent of the Carbonari. Moore says, that love
"Hath ever thought that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water."
In this case business was of the same opinion as love. Pachetti's word was worth a thousand piastres any day; and his cassino on the coast had a very different appearance from his small dark house on the Strada.
The feeling which of yore made the old warrior desire to die in harness, is the same which chains the citizen to his counter. Early habit taking a less picturesque form, Pachetti always spent festivals and Sundays at his cassino, but certainly those days did seem intolerably long. Honest, if not liberal—a sure and prudent agent—his employers and himself had been mutually satisfied. A secret always carries its own importance; and while Pachetti remonstrated on their imprudence, and complained of the danger, his dealings with the Carbonari were, in reality, the enjoyment of his life. ​He used to vow two wax tapers to Santo Januario, to save a poor quiet trader from such wild doings, and then double the offering lest he should be taken at his word.
To his wife he was the most amiable of husbands: he was not very fond of contradicting any body—he never dreamed of contradicting her. In youth he never noticed her flirtations—in age he never controlled her expenses. Could mortal obedience go farther? Signora Caterina thought it could. Weak, yet cunning—vain, yet conscious of having outlived her attractions—with one of those tempers which we conceive to be the true interpretation of the old fairy tale, where out of the mouth of the party proceeded snakes, toads, locusts, and other pleasantries. Almost desperate for want of a complaint—nerves were not known at Naples—Caterina had a bilious fever—"some demon whispered, have a taste" for jealousy. She recovered on the instant, and jealousy was henceforth the business and the pleasure of her life. The jealousy founded on the affections is torture—that on the temper is enjoyment:—
"There is a pleasure in the temper's pains,
Only the temper knows."
For the last few weeks, a press of business had confined him so closely to his shop, that, as few female neighbours ventured to set foot over her threshold, Caterina's vigilance had sadly lacked employment. The past fortnight had been one of sullenness, cold black looks, short snappish words, and those ingenious contradictions which sometimes vary the halcyon calm of domestic felicity. Beatrice's appearance was quite a godsend. Nothing is more inhuman than a bad temper. The forlorn situation of the young Spaniard only struck her hostess as enabling her to be insolent with impunity.
Weary, but too anxious for sleep, Beatrice gazed round the miserable little room: the walls, from which the plaster was mouldering—the cobwebs, that for years had been gathering on the rafters of the roof—the window, or rather opening, for window there was ​none, but a wooden shutter, which kept creaking backwards and forwards—the floor, discoloured with dirt—the wretched pallet—all struck her with a sick shudder of loathing and misery. Drawing her cloak round her, she opened the shutter, and, seating herself on a little wooden stool, the only seat in the room, she endeavoured to trace some plan of action. One hope she dwelt upon with mingled timidity and trust: "If Lorraine is in Naples, I have one friend at least." The high blood of her race mounted to the very temples at the thought of dependence even on her lover. Gratitude has nothing to do with love, more especially the imaginative love of a woman. She who would fain give the starry worlds to the object of her affection—it is a fine and beautiful pride which makes her shrink from aught of benefit from him. Once or twice her head dropped in momentary forgetfulness on her arm, but it was only to start again into full and bitter recollection. Towards morning she slept, completely overcome by fatigue. A shrill voice awakened her—it was that of her hostess, politely informing her, "Indeed they could not wait breakfast." Hastily Beatrice descended, drawing her veil close round her head to conceal her hair, whose ​massive plaits sadly wanted Minora's little mirror. Pachetti received her with a most obsequious bow, and gave her the arm-chair; Caterina stared at her without speaking; down they sat to breakfast.
Beatrice shuddered at the fried fish, swimming in oil, which was placed before her, and gladly filled a cup of water, of which, with a piece of bread, she commenced her meal. "Shame good food should be wasted!" muttered Signora Pachetti. Her husband offered some of the light wine to mix with the water. "I suppose I am not to be helped to-day: well, well, a man's wife is always the last person he thinks of," was the running accompaniment of his agreeable helpmate.
"I believe, Signor Pachetti," said Beatrice, "you have received a packet of much consequence from my father; its bearer"—for her life she could not have pronounced the name.
"Yes, yes, quite true—by a young English nobleman."
"Do you," asked she, in a low and hesitating voice, "know whether he is in Naples?"
"Naples!—one would have thought our beautiful city had been Palermo (good enough for the Sicilians!), he was in such haste to leave ​it. He sailed for Spain again a week ago. He was very anxious about your father's escape. I suppose his Eccellenza Inglese was one of those, too, who want to set the world to rights?"
Sailed for Spain! Her heart died within her; unconsciously she grasped the cup of water—a feeling as of suffocation was in her throat—but her hand trembled too much to raise it. Strong as emotion is, small things control it: she caught Caterina's eyes fixed on her with an expression of discovery, and triumph in her disappointment; the tears were forced back, and her steadied hand raised the water to her lips. What an effort it cost her to swallow it! Her voice was somewhat lower, but it was calm, when she again turned to Signor Pachetti, who had been too much occupied with his fish for remark—"Mr. Lorraine—did he leave with you any directions?"
"He gave me the address of the great bankers here; they were to forward any news to London, whither he was to go after a short stay in Spain. He left a letter for your father, in case he arrived here after his departure."
"That letter I will take into my own charge—and I shall trouble you with another to the ​bankers. And now to proceed to my own arrangements: you have property of my father's in your hands—I must request an advance."
"I hope my husband will first take good care to know the truth of your story," exclaimed Caterina, whose anger had risen, as anger usually does, on its own encouragement. "A good trade this of a fine day, and a fool to deal with: I think I'll turn Spanish exile myself. You might find a better employment than making quarrels between man and wife. And as for my husband's money, I wish you may get it."
Beatrice rose from her seat perfectly aghast; her conduct, however, required but a moment's deliberation. "I know not," said she to Pachetti, with that quiet, calm tone whose authority is so absolute over passion, "whether your wife is indulging a customary licence of tongue. My business is with you, and you only. You should not have undertaken your office, unless prepared for its various exigencies. I will not deny that I came here with the expectation of receiving protection and assistance, where I have only met with inhospitable insult. But I have not now to learn that my own resolution is my best resource. Here, as in my own country, ​there are convents; and surely in one of them a noble Spanish maiden may find temporary refuge. I ask no further assistance, Signor, than to point out one which may serve for a present abode."
"A convent!—the best place too," muttered the incorrigible shrew—"a convent! your best possible plan! I was sure a lady of your noble birth and habits could never condescend to put up with our humble home. The convent of St. Valerie is close at hand. I know a little of the superior. There were new gold clasps put to her missal from our very shop—richly embossed they were. But the pension is high."
"It matters not," said Beatrice; "my stay will be but short, and my father will not grudge the expense of his child. Besides, I have jewels—you must be aware of the value of these," drawing forth the bright cross made from the choicest rubies of Peru.
"Keep it yourself, Donna," said Pachetti, who seemed to take spirit from Beatrice's firmness—"I have ample funds of Don Henriquez'—a liberal gentleman he is."
"I would wish to set off at once—I can myself tell the Abbess my story. I need only ​ask your services as guide and to confirm my statement."
Pachetti stepped with most ingenious adroitness out of the room, and Beatrice was left to a tête-à-tête. The Signora, by silence to her guest, conversation to herself, and looks of mixed dislike and disdain, contrived to concentrate no little share of annoyance in the next hour. At length Pachetti returned, with information that she would be received at the convent of St. Valerie, and that a little covered carriage was at the door to convey her thither. Caterina received her salutation without a return, while her husband was profuse in his parting civilities. She paused for a moment in the shop to write an acknowledgment for the ducats she had received for present use, and to obtain the address of Lorraine's banker. Pachetti then handed her to the carriage, taking an opportunity of saying, in a most carefully subdued tone, "I shall be very glad to render you or your father any service or services. Caterina, poor thing! has not that blessing, an even temper; but she means very well. You know you ladies have all your little peculiarities."
"You ladies!"—the fire flashed into ​Beatrice's eyes at the words; however, she replied only with the thanks really due to his civility. Once, and only once, she drew aside the curtains of her vehicle, and then shrunk back in confusion at the number of people who turned the usual stare of the lazy on the passing carriage. They arrived at the convent-gate; and an old nun, who officiated as porteress, gave her in charge to another, who conducted her to the Abbess. The large wainscoted room, hung in a style with which she was familiar, raised her spirits into a sensation of home. The superior, a stately and pale though still handsome woman, received her politely but coldly—the coldness of indifference, not of dislike. She asked a few unimportant questions, and, ringing a small silver bell, the summons was answered by a nun, to whose care she consigned Beatrice.
The sister hurried her away, with all the delight of a child who has got a new plaything. Her desire to show her the convent, and introduce her to her companions, was arrested by observing the faintness and fatigue under which she was sinking. With the kindest sympathy, she led her to the cell appointed for her reception, insisted on her lying down, helped ​her to undress, brought her some warm soup, and then left her to that quiet which was the greatest of luxuries. A soft, fresh air, but sweet as if it had just passed over flowers, came from the open lattice; the young Spaniard drew one deep breath of enjoyment, and sank languidly on her pillow. In another moment she was asleep.
She slept for some hours. When she awoke, her apartment was filled with the warm crimson atmosphere of sunset—rich rose-stains fell on the wall and floor, which, even as she looked, grew fainter—and gradually the purple obscurity was only broken by the shadowy outline of a creeping and odoriferous shrub which had been trained round the casement. Suddenly a sound of music rose upon the air—it was the even-song of the convent; the notes of the organ and young sweet voices mingled in the hymn. The music—the fragrance of the flowers, whose odour was exhaling in the now falling dew—the languor of recent exertion—the sense of past dangers and present security—operated on Beatrice like the first and delicious stage of an opiate. All that was soothing in her hopes—all that was endearing to her memory, rose in their most ​fairy fancies. Beatrice listened till she lay and wept with delight.
A gentle hand now opened the door, and her former kind guide appeared. "You look much better, but you must not get up—to-morrow you will be quite another creature. You see I have not forgotten you: so eat your supper, and go to sleep again."
Some boiled rice, with some exquisite conserves, and a glass of wine, aromatic as if made of flowers—and Beatrice finished her repast with a conviction that never had there been any thing half so delicious. A gastronome ought to fast sometimes on principle; we appreciate no pleasures unless we are occasionally debarred from them. Restraint is the golden rule of enjoyment.