Bettina could not know into whose hands her letter had fallen; to restore it was, therefore, a real kindness—and, at the same stroke, a quiet declaration that I held her secret.
In the morning, I went to her bedside and placed in her hand two papers: Cordiani's note and my answer to hers.
She took them without a word.
That was enough.
His letter confessed everything—those nightly visits planned with the caution of a thief.
Whatever tale she had prepared for me was obsolete.
I chose, nevertheless, to ease her mind; not as a disappointed lover, but as a reasonable being who had understood the case.
Her spirit and talent had won my esteem; I could not despise her.
I saw only a young woman governed by her temperament—pitiable for the consequences, not for the inclination.
The shame, such as there was, belonged to her, not to me.
My only remaining curiosity (a very human one) concerned the two Feltrini brothers: had they, like their friend, enjoyed her favours?
All that day Bettina wore a cheerful face.
In the evening, she dressed for the ball; then, suddenly, a sickness—feigned or real I could not tell—sent her back to bed and alarmed the household.
For my part, knowing the whole comedy, I expected new scenes, and perhaps sad ones; for I had, by the mere possession of a paper, acquired over her a kind of power very offensive to her vanity and self-love. It gave me no pleasure.
I confess, too, that the excellent school in which I found myself before I had reached manhood did not make me wise.
Through life I have been the dupe of women—happily duped, if you like, but duped nonetheless.
Twelve years ago, if it had not been for my guardian angel, I would have foolishly married a young, thoughtless girl, with whom I had fallen in love: Now that I am seventy-two years old, I believe myself no longer susceptible of such follies; but, alas! that is the very thing which causes me to be miserable.
The next day the household went about with long faces: it was agreed that the devil, having taken Bettina, had now taken her reason.
Doctor Gozzi assured me there could not be the slightest doubt; had she been merely mad, she would never have so cruelly ill-treated Father Prospero.
He resolved to place her under the care of Father Mancia, a Dominican famous, it was said, for never failing with a possessed girl—a reputation which, like most reputations, grew in exact proportion to the credulity of those repeating it.
Sunday came.
Bettina dined well and raved the rest of the day.
Towards midnight her father returned, singing Tasso as usual, and so drunk he could scarcely stand. He went to her bed, kissed her, and said, "Thou art not mad, my girl."
"And you are not drunk," she answered.
"Thou art possessed of the devil, my dear child."
"Yes, father—and you alone can cure me."
"Well, I am ready."
Our shoemaker then delivered a discourse upon faith and the paternal blessing, flung off his cloak, seized a crucifix in one hand, set the other upon his daughter's head, and addressed the devil in a style so diverting that even his wife—ordinarily a monument of sourness—laughed till the tears ran.
The two principals did not laugh, and their gravity, set against the spectacle, doubled the comedy.
I, myself, marvelled that Bettina, who was always ready to enjoy a good laugh, could keep so steady a countenance.
My master, who had begun to smile, begged that the farce should end, for he considered his father's zeal a series of profanations against the sacred office of exorcism.
At last, the exorcist, much edified by himself and doubtless fatigued, declared he was certain the devil would not disturb his daughter during the night, and went to bed.
The next morning, as we were finishing breakfast, Father Mancia arrived without ceremony. A hush spread through the room; even the spoons seemed to pause.
Doctor Gozzi went to receive him, and the rest of us followed like penitents.
He was not at all what I had imagined a conqueror of demons to be.
Tall, fair, and grave, he seemed more suited to bless a marriage than to battle the devil. His hair, the color of straw touched by sun, framed a face so pale it looked carved from wax; his lips, soft and coral, seemed made for pity rather than judgment.
He was neither thin nor stout, and the habitual sadness of his countenance enhanced its sweetness. His gait was slow, his air timid, an indication of the great modesty of his mind.
There was nothing of fire in him—only the strange calm of a man accustomed to darkness.
We entered Bettina's room. Bettina was asleep, or had chosen to seem so.
Father Mancia took the sprinkler, let fall a few drops of holy water.
She opened her eyes, glanced up at him, closed them again; then, after a second look—longer, measuring—she lay on her back, let her arms drop softly to either side, inclined her head and slid into what any painter would have called a perfect slumber.
Standing by the bed, the exorcist drew from his pocket the ritual and a violet stole, which he placed round his neck; then a small reliquary, laid lightly upon the girl's bosom.
"Let us kneel," he said, "and pray that God will show whether this affliction be a spirit or a sickness."
We obeyed.
For half an hour he murmured in Latin. Bettina did not stir.
Tired, perhaps, of the office—or satisfied with its effect—he asked to speak with the doctor apart.
They had scarcely withdrawn when a bright peal of laughter —a laugh so manic and sudden that it scattered our piety like startled birds.
When they returned, she had turned to the wall, face buried in the pillow.
Father Mancia smiled, dipped the sprinkler again, gave the room (and all faces in it) a generous benediction, and took his leave.
Gozzi returned to the kitchen with the verdict we wished to hear: "He will come again tomorrow. If she is truly possessed, he will deliver her within three hours. If it is madness, he promises nothing."
The mother clasped her hands, declared she had beheld a saint, and thanked Heaven for arranging the introduction.
The next morning Bettina plunged into another frenzy—verse and nonsense mixed together.
Father Mancia entered; she did not so much as blink.
He listened a minute or two, as if tasting the flavor of her nonsense, then quietly armed himself—ritual in pocket, stole about the neck, reliquary in hand—and asked us to withdraw.
We obeyed at once.
The door remained open; but who was bold enough to cross that threshold?
Three hours of perfect stillness followed.
No chant, no cry, not even the scrape of a chair.
At noon he called us back. Bettina sat up, pale, sad and docile; the exorcist packed his things calmly.
"I have good hopes," he said to Gozzi, and took his leave.
She ate in bed, came to table at night, and the next day behaved with complete reason. The improvement was admirable; but I kept my judgment in reserve.
Two days before the Purification, Gozzi reminded us that we would confess at Saint-Augustin, as was his custom with the Jacobins; afterward he would give us the sacrament in his own chapel.
His mother, kindled with edification, declared, "You should all confess to Father Mancia and receive absolution from so holy a man. I shall go myself."
Cordiani and the two Feltrini agreed at once.
I held my tongue and made my plans.
I trusted the seal of confession and was incapable of a false one, but I also knew a communicant's right to choose his confessor.
I would not be so simple as to tell Father Mancia what had passed between myself and a certain girl; because he would have easily guessed that the girl could be no other but Bettina.
Besides, I had no doubt that Cordiani—blessed with zeal and short on discretion—would unburden himself to the very man I meant to avoid.
I was sorry for Bettina, and, I admit, sorrier for the trouble that truth, once piously delivered, tends to multiply.
Piety is best served, I have found, when the priest is a stranger and the penitent discreet.
Early the next morning, Bettina brought a ribbon for my collar and fastened it with careful fingers. Then she placed a folded note on the table and withdrew without a word.
I opened it at once.
"Spurn me, but respect my honour and the shadow of peace to which I aspire. No one from this house must confess to Father Mancia; you alone can prevent the execution of that project, and I need not suggest the way to succeed. It will prove whether you have some friendship for me."
The handwriting betrayed her agitation—strokes uneven with ink blotted in places.
I could not express the pity I felt for the poor girl, as I read that note. In spite of that feeling, this is what I answered:
"I understand your anxiety; the prospect must torment you. but I cannot see why, in order to prevent its execution, you should depend upon me rather than upon Cordiani who has expressed his acceptance of it. All I can promise you is that I will not be one of those who may go to Father Mancia; but I have no influence over your lover; you alone can speak to him."
Her reply came within the hour.
"I have never addressed a word to Cordiani since the fatal night which has sealed my misery, and I never will speak to him again, even if I could by so doing recover my lost happiness. To you alone I wish to be indebted for my life and for my honour."
That note struck me more deeply than I care to admit.
I admired her defiance even as I distrusted it.
She had the tragic eloquence of heroines who ruin themselves nobly in novels, though her letters lacked their caution.
To me she seemed both artful and innocent—half courage, half effrontery.
I thought she meant to clap her chains upon me again; yet I resolved to do her the service she believed only I could compass.
She felt certain of her success, but in what school had she obtained her experience of the human heart? Was it in reading novels?
Novels may ruin many young girls, yet the good ones teach graceful manners and a certain knowledge of society.
That evening, while Doctor Gozzi and I undressed for bed, I said quietly, "Father, I cannot in conscience confess to Mancia. Yet I would not stand apart from the others."
He looked at me kindly and said: "You shall not. We will all go to Saint-Antoine tomorrow."
I kissed his hand in thanks.
At dinner the next day Bettina appeared radiant, her face beaming with satisfaction.
She poured the wine, hummed a little hymn off-key, and touched her mother's shoulder with tender gravity—as if she had made her peace with Heaven and meant that we should notice.