son. Cornélie saw no one but Duco, and occasionally Urania Hope. The American girl visited her from time to time and told her about Belloni: there was much talk about Cornélie and Duco and many comments on their relationship. Urania was glad to feel above hotel gossip, but still wanted to warn Cornélie. There was something spontaneous and friendly in her words, which Cornélie found sympathetic. But when Cornélie asked about the prince she fell silent and obviously did not want to say much. Then, after the court ball—where the queen really had worn the sequined brocade!—Urania visited Cornélie again and admitted over a cup of tea that she had promised the prince that morning to visit him at his residence. She said it quite simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Cornélie was alarmed and asked how on earth she could have promised such a thing …
“Why not?” replied Urania. “What’s wrong with it? I receive his visits … why should I, if he asks me to come and see his rooms—he lives in Palazzo Ruspoli—if he wants to show me some paintings, miniatures and antique lace … why should I refuse to go? Why should I make such a fuss about it? I’m above such petty-mindedness.
We American girls behave very freely with our gentlemen . And what about you? You walk with Mr Van der Staal, you dine and breakfast with him, you go on excursions with him, you go to his studio …”
“I’ve been married,” replied Cornélie. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. You have your parents … What you’re contemplating is rash and reckless … Tell, is the prince thinking … of marriage?”
“If I become a Catholic …”
“And …?”
“I think … I will … I’ve written to Chicago,” she said hesitantly.
She closed her lovely eyes for a moment and went pale as she had a vision of the title of princess-duchess.
“It’s just …” she began.
“What …?”
“Life won’t be much fun. The prince is one of the Blacks. They are in permanent mourning for the Pope. Scarcely anything happens in their coterie, no balls or parties. If we got married, I’d like him to come to America with me. His father is very proud, inaccessible and taciturn. I’ve heard that from various sides. What am I to do, Cornélie? I love Gilio very much; his name is Virgilio. And you know the title is an old Italian one:
principe di Forte-Braccio, duca di San Stefano
… But you see, that’s all there is, all. San Stefano is a hole. That’s where his papa lives. They sell wine and that is what they live on. And olive oil: but they don’t make any money from it. My father manufactures stockings but he has made a fortune from it. They haven’t many family jewels. I’ve made inquiries … His cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla,the queen’s lady-in-waiting, is sweet … but we would not see her officially. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. It seems to me a rather boring prospect …”
Cornélie responded vehemently, burst out and repeated her slogans: against marriage in general and against this marriage in particular, purely for the sake of a title. Urania agreed: it was just a title … but it was also Gilio: he was sweet and she loved him. But Cornélie didn’t believe a word, and told her straight. Urania wept: she did not know what to do.
“And when were you supposed to visit your prince?”
“Tonight …”
“Don’t go.”
“No, no, you’re right, I won’t go.”
“Do you give me your word?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Don’t go, Urania.”
“No, I won’t go. You are a dear girl. You’re right: I won’t go. I swear to you I won’t go …”
XIX
B UT THERE HAD BEEN SUCH VAGUENESS in Urania’s assurances, that Cornélie felt uneasy and that evening talked to Duco about it in the restaurant where they met. But he was not interested, in Urania, what she did or did not do, and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. But she was silent and withdrawn and did not hear what he said: a side
“Why not?” replied Urania. “What’s wrong with it? I receive his visits … why should I, if he asks me to come and see his rooms—he lives in Palazzo Ruspoli—if he wants to show me some paintings, miniatures and antique lace … why should I refuse to go? Why should I make such a fuss about it? I’m above such petty-mindedness.
We American girls behave very freely with our gentlemen . And what about you? You walk with Mr Van der Staal, you dine and breakfast with him, you go on excursions with him, you go to his studio …”
“I’ve been married,” replied Cornélie. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. You have your parents … What you’re contemplating is rash and reckless … Tell, is the prince thinking … of marriage?”
“If I become a Catholic …”
“And …?”
“I think … I will … I’ve written to Chicago,” she said hesitantly.
She closed her lovely eyes for a moment and went pale as she had a vision of the title of princess-duchess.
“It’s just …” she began.
“What …?”
“Life won’t be much fun. The prince is one of the Blacks. They are in permanent mourning for the Pope. Scarcely anything happens in their coterie, no balls or parties. If we got married, I’d like him to come to America with me. His father is very proud, inaccessible and taciturn. I’ve heard that from various sides. What am I to do, Cornélie? I love Gilio very much; his name is Virgilio. And you know the title is an old Italian one:
principe di Forte-Braccio, duca di San Stefano
… But you see, that’s all there is, all. San Stefano is a hole. That’s where his papa lives. They sell wine and that is what they live on. And olive oil: but they don’t make any money from it. My father manufactures stockings but he has made a fortune from it. They haven’t many family jewels. I’ve made inquiries … His cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla,the queen’s lady-in-waiting, is sweet … but we would not see her officially. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. It seems to me a rather boring prospect …”
Cornélie responded vehemently, burst out and repeated her slogans: against marriage in general and against this marriage in particular, purely for the sake of a title. Urania agreed: it was just a title … but it was also Gilio: he was sweet and she loved him. But Cornélie didn’t believe a word, and told her straight. Urania wept: she did not know what to do.
“And when were you supposed to visit your prince?”
“Tonight …”
“Don’t go.”
“No, no, you’re right, I won’t go.”
“Do you give me your word?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Don’t go, Urania.”
“No, I won’t go. You are a dear girl. You’re right: I won’t go. I swear to you I won’t go …”
XIX
B UT THERE HAD BEEN SUCH VAGUENESS in Urania’s assurances, that Cornélie felt uneasy and that evening talked to Duco about it in the restaurant where they met. But he was not interested, in Urania, what she did or did not do, and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. But she was silent and withdrawn and did not hear what he said: a side
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