While Fabrizio was prosecuting¹ his search for love in a village near Parma, Rassi, all unconscious of his vicinity, continued dealing³ with the young man’s case as if it had been that of a Liberal. He pretended it was impossible to find any witnesses for the defence, or rather, he browbeat⁴ those he did find. Finally, after protracted⁵ and skilful⁶ labour, lasting⁷ nearly a year, the Marchesa Raversi, one Friday evening some two months after Fabrizio’s last visit to Bologna, publicly announced in her drawing-room—that on the very next day young Del Dongo’s sentence, which had been pronounced just an hour before, would be presented for the prince’s signature, and would receive his approval.  
Within a very few minutes the duchess was apprised⁸ of her enemy’s announcement. “The count’s agents must serve him very ill,” said she to herself. “Even this morning he thought the sentence could not be pronounced for another week. It would not break his heart, perhaps, to see my young grand vicar banished⁹ from Parma. But,” she added, and she began to sing, “we shall see him come back, and he will be our archbishop some day!” The duchess rang the bell. “Call all the servants together into the anteroom,” said she to her footman, “even the cooks. Go to the commandant of the fortress¹⁰ and get a permit from him for four post-horses, and see that those same horses are harnessed to my carriage before half an hour is out.” All the waiting-women in the house were busy packing trunks, the duchess hurriedly slipped on a travelling dress—all this without sending any warning to the count. The idea of making sport of him a little filled her with delight.
 
“My friends,” she said to the servants, who were now assembled, “I have just heard that my poor nephew is about to be sentenced, by default, for having had the impudence¹¹ to defend his life against a madman. It was Giletti who would have killed him. You have all of you had opportunities of seeing how gentle and inoffensive Fabrizio is by nature. Infuriated, as I have a right to be, by this vile¹² insult, I start instantly for Florence. I leave each of you ten years’ wages. If you fall into difficulties, write to me, and as long as I have a sequin, there will be something for you.”
 
The duchess thought exactly what she said, and at her last words, her servants burst into tears. Her own eyes were wet, and she added, in a voice that trembled with emotion, “Pray to God for me, and for Monsignore del Dongo, chief grand vicar of the diocese, who will be sentenced to-morrow morning to the galleys¹³, or, which would be less ridiculous, to the penalty of death.”
 
The servants’ tears fell faster, and their sobs¹⁴ changed by degrees into shouts that were almost seditious. The duchess entered her coach, and had herself driven to the prince’s palace. In spite of the unwonted hour, she requested General Fontana, the aide-de-camp in waiting, to beg the prince to grant her an audience. The aide-de-camp observed, with great astonishment¹⁵, that she was not in full court dress. As for the prince, he was not the least surprised, and even less displeased¹⁶, by the request for an audience. “Now we shall see tears shed by lovely eyes,” said he to himself, rubbing his hands. “She comes to sue for mercy; this proud beauty is going to humble¹⁷ herself at last. And, indeed, she was quite unbearable¹⁸, with her little airs of independence. Whenever the smallest thing displeased her, those speaking eyes seemed always to tell me ‘it would be far pleasanter to live at Naples, or at Milan, than in your little town of Parma.’ It is true I do not reign¹⁹ over Naples, nor over Milan, but at any rate this fine lady is coming to beg me for something which depends on me alone, and which she pines to obtain. I have always thought that the nephew’s arrival would help me to get something out of her.”
 
While the prince was smiling at his own thoughts, and indulging in these pleasing forecasts, he kept walking up[255] and down his study, at the door of which General Fontana still stood, upright and stiff, like a soldier shouldering arms. When he saw the prince’s shining eyes and recollected²⁰ the duchess’s travelling garments, he felt convinced the monarchy²¹ was about to drop to pieces, and his astonishment exceeded all limits when he heard the prince address him thus: “You will ask the duchess to be good enough to wait for a quarter of an hour or so.” The aide-de-camp turned to the right about, like a soldier on parade, and the prince smiled again. “Fontana is not accustomed,” said he to himself, “to see the haughty²² duchess kept waiting. His face of astonishment when he tells her to wait for a quarter of an hour will pave the way for the affecting tears that will shortly be shed in this study.” That quarter of an hour was an exquisite²³ one to the prince. He walked up and down, with steady and even step; he reigned²⁴ in very deed. “It is important that nothing should be said which is not perfectly²⁵ correct. Whatever may be my feelings toward the duchess, I must not forget that she is one of the greatest ladies of my court. How did Louis XIV address the princesses, his daughters, when he had reason to be displeased with them?” and his glance lingered on the great king’s portrait.
 
The comical thing was that the prince never thought of asking himself whether he should show mercy to Fabrizio, and what kind of mercy he should extend. At last, after the lapse²⁶ of twenty minutes, the faithful Fontana appeared once more at the door, this time without saying a word. “The Duchess Sanseverina is permitted to enter,” exclaimed the prince, with a theatrical²⁷ air. “Now the tears will begin,” said he, and as though to prepare himself for the sight, he pulled out his own handkerchief.
 
Never had the duchess looked so active or so pretty; she did not seem more than five-and-twenty. When the poor aide-de-camp saw her float across the carpet which her light foot hardly appeared to touch, he very nearly lost his head altogether. “I have all sorts of apologies to make your Most Serene²⁸ Highness,” said the duchess in her clear blithe²⁹ voice. “I’ve taken the liberty of presenting myself in a dress which is not exactly correct, but your Highness has so accustomed me to your kindnesses, that I have dared to hope you would grant me this favour.”
 
The duchess spoke³⁰ rather slowly, so as to give herself time to enjoy the expression of the prince’s countenance³¹, which was exquisite, by reason of his overwhelming astonishment and the remains³² of pomposity³³ still indicated by the pose of his head and the position of his arms. The prince was thunder-struck. Every now and then he exclaimed almost inarticulately, in his little shrill³⁴, unsteady voice, “What! what!”
 
When the duchess had come to the end of her speech, she paused respectfully, as though to give him an opportunity of replying. Then she continued, “I venture to hope your Most Serene Highness will pardon the incongruity³⁵ of my costume,” but even as she spoke the words, her mocking eyes shot out such brilliant shafts³⁶ that the prince could not endure their glance. He stared at the ceiling, which, in his case, was always a sign of the most extreme embarrassment³⁷.
 
“What! what!” said he again. Then he was lucky enough to think of a remark.
 
“Duchess, pray be seated,” and he himself offered her a chair, and with considerable grace. The duchess was not unmoved by this politeness, and her indignant glance softened³⁸.
 
“What! what!” repeated the prince once more, fidgeting in his chair as though he could not settle himself firmly into it.
 
“I am going to take advantage of the coolness of the night hours to travel by post,” continued the duchess, “and as my absence may be of considerable duration, I would not leave your Most Serene Highness’s dominions³⁹ without thanking you for all the kindness you have condescended⁴⁰ to show me during the last five years.” At these words the prince understood at last, and turned pale. No man in the world suffered more than he, at the idea of having been mistaken in his forecast, but he took on an air of majesty⁴¹ quite worthy⁴² of the picture of Louis XIV which hung in front of him. “Ah, very good,” thought the duchess; “this is a man.”
 
“And what may be the reason of this sudden departure?” said the prince in a fairly steady voice.
 
“The plan is an old one,” replied the duchess, “and a petty insult which is being put on Monsignore del Dongo, who is to be sentenced either to death or to the galleys to-morrow, has hastened my departure.”
 
“And to what town do you proceed?”
 
“To Naples, I think.” Then, rising, she added: “All that now remains for me to do is to take leave of your Most Serene Highness, and to thank you, most humbly⁴³, for your former kindnesses.” Her tone was now so resolute⁴⁴ that the prince clearly perceived that in two seconds everything would be over. Once the rupture⁴⁵ of her departure had taken place, he knew any arrangement would be hopeless. She was not a woman to undo⁴⁶ what she had once done. He hurried after her.
 
“But you know very well, duchess,” he said, taking her hand, “that I have always liked you, and that if you had chosen, that affection would have borne another name. A murder has been committed; that can not be denied. I employed my best judges to carry on the trial——”
 
At these words the duchess drew herself up to her full height. Like a flash every semblance⁴⁷ of respect and even of urbanity disappeared. The offended woman stood unveiled before him, and an offended woman speaking to a being whom she knew to be false. With an expression of the liveliest anger and even scorn, she addressed the prince, laying stress on every word:
 
“I am leaving your Most Serene Highness’s dominions forever, so that I may never again hear the names of Rassi and of the other vile assassins who have passed sentence of death on my nephew, and on so many others. If your Most Serene Highness does not desire to mingle⁴⁸ a feeling of bitterness with the memory of the last moments I have to spend in the presence of a prince who is both courteous⁴⁹ and witty⁵⁰, when he is not deceived, I very humbly beseech⁵¹ your Highness not to remind me of those shameless judges who sell themselves for a decoration, or for a thousand crowns.” The ring of nobility, and above all of truth, in her words, made the prince shiver. For a moment he feared his dignity might be compromised by a yet more direct accusation⁵². But on the whole, his sensation soon became one of pleasure. He admired the duchess; her whole person, at that moment, breathed a beauty that was sublime⁵³. “Good God, how beautiful she is!” said the prince to himself; “something must be forgiven to such a woman—there is probably not another like her in Italy.… Well, with a little careful policy, I may not find it impossible to make her my mistress some day. Such a creature would be very different from that doll-faced Balbi, who steals at least three hundred thousand francs a year from my poor subjects into the bargain.… But did I hear aright?” thought he suddenly. “She said, ‘sentenced my nephew and so many others’!” Then rage got the upper hand, and it was with a haughtiness⁵⁴ worthy of his supreme⁵⁵ position that the prince said, after a silence, “And what must be done to prevent the duchess from departing?”
 
“Something of which you are not capable,” replied the duchess, and the most bitter irony⁵⁶ and the most open scorn rang in her voice.
 
The prince was beside himself, but the habit of reigning⁵⁷ with absolute authority had brought him strength to resist his first impulses. “I must possess this woman,” thought he; “I owe it to myself. And then I must kill her with my scorn. If she leaves this study I shall never see her again.” But wild as he was, at that moment, with rage and hatred⁵⁸, how was he to pitch on a phrase which would at once fulfil what was due to himself, and induce the duchess not to forsake⁵⁹ his court that instant? “A gesture,” thought he, “can neither be repeated nor turned into ridicule,” and he put himself between the duchess and the door of the room. Soon after he heard somebody tapping at the door. “Who is the damned fellow,” he exclaimed, swearing with all the strength of his lungs, “who is the damned fellow who wants to intrude⁶⁰ his idiotic⁶¹ person here?” Poor General Fontana put in a pale and completely puzzled countenance. With a face like the face of a dying man he murmured inarticulately, “His Excellency Count Mosca craves⁶² the honour of an audience.”
 
“Let him come in,” shouted the prince, and as Mosca bowed before him, “Well,” said he, “here is the Duchess Sanseverina, who says she is instantly leaving Parma to go and settle in Naples, and who has been making impertinent remarks to me into the bargain.”
 
“What!” said Mosca.
 
“What! You knew nothing about the plan of departure?”
 
“Not a single word. When I left the duchess at six o’clock she was cheerful and gay.” The words produced an incredible effect upon the prince. First of all he looked at Mosca, whose increasing pallor proved that he had spoken the truth, and had nothing to do with the duchess’s sudden freak. “In that case,” said he to himself, “she is lost to me forever. My pleasure and my vengeance⁶³ both fly away together. At Naples she and her nephew Fabrizio will write epigrams on the mighty⁶⁴ rages of the little Prince of Parma.” Then he looked at the duchess; the most violent scorn and anger were struggling in her breast, her eyes were riveted⁶⁵ on Count Mosca, and the delicate lines of her beautiful mouth expressed the bitterest disdain⁶⁶. Her whole expression seemed to say “Cringing courtier!”
 
“Thus,” thought the prince after having scrutinized⁶⁷ her, “I have lost the means of recalling her to my country. Once more, if she leaves the study at this moment, she is lost to me. God only knows what she will say about my judges at Naples. And with the wit and divine powers of persuasion⁶⁸ Heaven has given her, she will make everybody believe her. Thanks to her, I shall bear the reputation of an undignified tyrant⁶⁹, who gets up in the night to look under his bed.” Then, by a skilful manœuvre, as if he were walking about to calm his agitation⁷⁰, the prince once more placed himself in front of the study door. The count was at his right, some three paces off, pale, discomposed, and trembling to such an extent that he was obliged to support himself by leaning on the back of the arm-chair which the duchess had occupied during the beginning of the audience, and which the prince had pushed away with an angry gesture.
 
The count was in love. “If the duchess goes,” he was saying to himself, “I shall follow her. But will she allow me to follow her? That is the question.” On the prince’s left the duchess stood erect⁷¹, her arms folded tightly across her bosom⁷², superbly angry, watching him. The brilliant colour which had lately flushed her beautiful face had faded into the deepest pallor. The prince’s face, unlike those of the other two actors in the scene, was red, and he looked worried. His left hand convulsively jerked the cross fastened to the ribbon of his order, which he wore under his coat; his right hand caressed⁷³ his chin.
 
“What is to be done?” said he to the count, hardly knowing what he said, and carried away by his habit of consulting Mosca about everything.
 
“Truly I know not, your Most Serene Highness,” said the count, like a man who was breathing out his last sigh; he could hardly speak the words. The tone of his voice was the first consolation⁷⁴ to his wounded pride which the prince had enjoyed during the audience, and this small piece of good fortune inspired him with a remark that was very grateful to his vanity.
 
“Well,” said he, “I am the most sensible of us three. I am willing to completely overlook my own position in the world. I shall speak as a friend,” and he added, with a noble smile of condescension—a fine imitation of the good old times of Louis XIV—“as a friend speaking to his friends. Duchess,” he added, “what must I do to induce you to forget this untimely decision?”
 
“Truly, I know not,” said the duchess with a great sigh; “truly I know not, so hateful is Parma to me.” There was not the smallest epigrammatic intention in her words; her sincerity⁷⁵ was quite evident. The count turned sharply toward her; his courtier’s soul was horrified⁷⁶. Then he cast a beseeching⁷⁷ glance toward the prince. The prince paused for a moment; then, turning with great dignity and calmness to the count, “I see,” said he, “that your charming friend is quite beside herself; that is quite natural—she adores her nephew.” Then to the duchess—speaking in the most gallant⁷⁸ manner, and at the same time with the sort of air with which a man quotes the key word of a comedy—he added, “What must I do to find favour in those fair eyes?”
 
The duchess had had time to reflect. In a slow and steady voice, as if she had been dictating⁷⁹ her ultimatum⁸⁰, she replied: “Your Highness would write me a gracious letter, such as you so well know how to write, in which you would say that, not being convinced of the guilt⁸¹ of Fabrizio del Dongo, chief grand vicar to the archbishop, you will not sign the sentence when it is presented to you, and that these unjust proceedings⁸² shall have no further effect.”
 
“What! unjust?” said the prince, reddening up to the whites of his eyes and falling into a rage again.
 
“That is not all,” replied the duchess with all the dignity of a Roman matron. “This very evening, and,” she added, looking at the clock, “it is already a quarter past eleven—this very evening your Most Serene Highness would send word to the Marchesa Raversi that you advise her to go to the country to recover from the fatigue⁸³ which a certain trial, of which she was talking in her drawing-room early this evening, must doubtless have caused her.”
 
The prince was raging up and down his study like a fury.
 
“Did any one ever see such a woman?” he cried. “She actually fails in respect to my person!”
 
The duchess replied with the most perfect grace: “Never in my life did it enter my head to fail in respect to your Most Serene Highness. Your Highness was so extremely condescending⁸⁴ as to say that you would speak as a friend to his friends. And, indeed, I have no desire to remain in Parma,” she added, shooting a glance of the most ineffable⁸⁵ scorn at the count. That glance decided⁸⁶ the prince, who had been hitherto very uncertain in his mind, although his words might have been taken to indicate an undertaking⁸⁷,—but words meant little to him.
 
A few more remarks were exchanged, but at last Count Mosca received orders to write the gracious note for which the duchess had asked. He omitted the sentence: “These unjust proceedings shall have no further effect.” “It will be quite enough,” said the count to himself, “if the prince promises not to sign the sentence when it is presented to him.” As the prince signed the paper he thanked him with a glance.
 
The count made a great blunder. The prince was tired out, and he would have signed everything. He flattered himself he had got through the scene very well, and the whole matter was overshadowed in his mind by the thought, “If the duchess goes away the court will grow tiresome⁸⁸ to me in less than a week.” The count noticed that his master had corrected the date, and inserted that of the next day. He glanced at the clock; it was almost midnight. The correction only struck the minister as a proof of the prince’s pedantic⁸⁹ desire to show his exactness and careful government. As to the exile of the Marchesa Raversi, he made no difficulty at all. The prince took a particular delight in banishing⁹⁰ people.
 
“General Fontana!” he called out, half opening the door. The general appeared, wearing a face of such astonishment and curiosity that a swift glance of amusement passed between the count and the duchess, and in that glance, peace was made between them.
 
“General Fontana,” said the prince, “you will get into my carriage, which is waiting under the colonnade⁹¹, you will go to the Marchesa Raversi’s house, you will send up your name. If she is in bed you will add that you come from me, and when you reach her room, you will say these exact words, and no others: ‘Signora Marchesa Raversi, his Most Serene Highness invites you to depart to-morrow, before eight o’clock in the morning, to your castle at Velleia. His Highness will inform you when you may return to Parma.’” The prince’s eyes sought those of the duchess, who, without thanking him, as he had expected, made him an exceedingly respectful courtesy, and went swiftly out of the room.
 
“What a woman!” said the prince, turning toward Count Mosca.
 
The count, who was delighte............