“Your race,” she asked the Conte, “is surely as old as that of the Farnese, to which this young man belongs?”
“What do you mean? As old? I have no bastardy in my family, thank you.”6
As luck would have it, Conte M⸺ never had an opportunity of studying this pretended rival at his leisure, which confirmed him in the flattering idea of his having a Prince for antagonist. The fact was that whenever the interests of his enterprise did not summon Fabrizio to Parma, he remained in the woods round Sacca and on the bank of the Po. Conte M⸺ was indeed more proud, but was also more prudent since he had imagined himself to be on the way to disputing the heart of Fausta with a Prince; he begged her very seriously to observe the greatest restraint in all her doings. After flinging himself on his knees like a jealous and impassioned lover, he declared to her in so many words that his honour was involved in her not being made the dupe of the young Prince.
“Excuse me, I should not be his dupe if I cared for him; I must say, I have never yet seen a Prince at my feet.”
“If you yield,” he went on with a haughty stare, “I may not perhaps be able to avenge myself on the Prince but I will, most assuredly, be avenged”; and he went out, slamming the doors behind him. Had Fabrizio presented himself at that moment, he would have won his cause.
“If you value your life,” her lover said to her that evening as he bade her good night after the performance, “see that it never comes to my ears that the young Prince has been inside your house. I can do nothing to him, curse him, but do not make me remember that I can do everything to you!”
“Ah, my little Fabrizio,” cried Fausta, “if I only knew where to find you!”
Wounded vanity may carry a young man far who is rich and from his cradle has always been surrounded by flatterers. The very genuine passion that Conte M⸺ felt for Fausta revived with furious intensity; it was in no way checked by the dangerous prospect of his coming into conflict with the only son of the Sovereign in whose dominions he happened to be staying; at the same time he had not the courage to try to see this Prince, or at least to have him followed. Not being able to attack him in any other way, M⸺ dared to consider making him ridiculous. “I shall be banished forever from the States of Parma,” he said to himself; “Pshaw! What does that matter?” Had he sought to reconnoitre the enemy’s position, he would have learned that the poor young Prince never went out of doors without being followed by three or four old men, tiresome guardians of etiquette, and that the one pleasure of his choice that was permitted him in the world was mineralogy. By day, as by night, the little palazzo occupied by Fausta, to which the best society of Parma went in crowds, was surrounded by watchers; M⸺ knew, hour by hour, what she was doing, and, more important still, what others were doing round about her. There is this to be said in praise of the precautions taken by her jealous lover: this eminently capricious woman had at first no idea of the multiplication of his vigilance. The reports of all his agents informed Conte M⸺ that a very young man, wearing a wig of red hair, appeared very often beneath Fausta’s windows, but always in a different disguise. “Evidently, it is the young Prince,” thought M⸺ “otherwise, why the disguise? And, by gad, a man like me is not made to give way to him. But for the usurpations of the Venetian Republic, I should be a Sovereign Prince myself.”
On the feast of Santo Stefano, the reports of the spies took on a more sombre hue; they seemed to indicate that Fausta was beginning to respond to the stranger’s advances. “I can go away this instant, and take the woman with me!” M⸺ said to himself; “but no! At Bologna I fled from del Dongo; here I should be fleeing before a Prince. But what could the young man say? He might think that he had succeeded in making me afraid. And, by God, I come of as good a family as he.” M⸺ was furious, but, to crown his misery, he made a particular point of not letting himself appear in the eyes of Fausta, whom he knew to be of a mocking spirit, in the ridiculous character of a jealous lover. On Santo Stefano’s day, then, after having spent an hour with her and been welcomed by her with an ardour which seemed to him the height of insincerity, he left her, shortly before eleven o’clock, getting ready to go and hear mass in the church of San Giovanni. Conte M⸺ returned home, put on the shabby black coat of a young student of theology, and hastened to San Giovanni; he chose a place behind one of the tombs that adorn the third
