He bowed over the hand of each lady, leaving mine till last. There was design in that, I thought, and when his warm lips lingered on my fingers, instead of brushing the air above them, I was sure.
Grandfather—who could speak adequate French when he had to—immediately took De Merode to task for his rudeness, but his smiling manner showed that he was prepared to forgive and forget.
“My dear Prince—have pity!” De Merode covered his eyes with his hand in mock repentance. “Credit me only with too much zeal in my profession. I have come to beg forgiveness. I would have come earlier, but we have been on duty day and night this past week.”
“Ah.” Grandfather leaned forward, forgetting his mock displeasure in his curiosity. “Then the tales I hear are correct? That wretched mountebank has appeared again?”
“You mustn’t refer to our hero so rudely, Prince.” De Merode smiled meaningfully at me. “I believe the ladies find him very romantic.”
“Oh, certainly we do,” Galiana exclaimed. “I am sure he is young and handsome; aren’t you, Francesca? I wish I could see him!”
“Galiana.” The poor girl jumped at the sound of her mother’s soft voice. The Contessa went on, “I know you speak in jest, but on this subject mockery is profane. This wretched man is defying not only the law of man but God’s vicar on earth. You should pray for his soul and deplore his actions.”
“Yes, Mama,” Galiana muttered, lowering her eyes.
“What has he done now?” I asked.
“Rescued his printing press,” said the Captain.
I had been expecting some tale of human interest—a poor peasant freed of his taxes, a bandit snatched from prison— and this anticlimax, I regret to say, struck me as very funny.
I began to laugh, and after a moment Galiana joined me. The Captain frowned.
“The press is more important than you realize,” he said. “An informer—that is to say, a patriotic peasant—gave us information which enabled us to locate the abandoned hut in which the machine was concealed. Unfortunately we arrived too late. Oh, the press had been there, the evidence was unmistakable; but that demon had somehow gotten wind of our intentions and anticipated us.”
“But most of the peasants can’t read,” Grandfather protested. “How stupid these revolutionaries are, to waste print on such animals.”
Stefano coughed gently. All eyes turned toward him. Sitting at ease, dressed with his usual severe elegance, his only sign of disability was his black cane.
“The gentry can read. It is this class, one supposes, that your bird of prey wishes to convert.”
“Precisely,” De Merode agreed grudgingly. “Besides, it is not only words he prints. I suppose, your Excellency, that your people don’t want to show you this inflammatory nonsense, but you ought to know what your peasants are seeing.” With a flourish he pulled a scroll of paper from the breast of his tunic and unrolled it.
It was a drawing. Crudely done, but immediately apparent to the meanest intelligence, it showed a figure dressed in flowing robes and a papal tiara. One hand was raised in blessing under a celestial glory (in the shape of a fat cloud). But the other hand was employed in snatching a loaf of bread from the hand of a miserable-looking peasant. A dead or dying child lay at the feet of this man; beside him crouched a woman, menaced by a leering figure in the same uniform Captain De Merode wore with such distinction.
Someone, I did not see who, gasped sharply. My grandfather’s face turned purple with rage; he snatched at the drawing.
“Wait,” I said, putting out my hand. “May I see it, Captain? I know something of drawing, and I think…. Yes; this sketch is a piece of deception in itself. Its first impression is one of crude vigor, effective but unsophisticated. Yet this is not the drawing of a man untrained in art. The perspective, and the anatomy of the figures, is quite good.”
I had forgotten myself in my interest and had spoken in English. Stefano tapped his stick on the floor and gave me a mocking smile.
“Clever,” he said condescendingly. “But I fear your analysis doesn’t help the Captain. This need not be a masterpiece from the hand of the Falcon himself. He numbers educated men among his followers.”
He then proceeded to translate my comment. The only one who seemed to be impressed or interested was Galiana, who looked at me admiringly. The Captain merely nodded.
“As the Count has said, this tells us nothing.”
“I fail to see, however,” said Stefano, “why you brought it here. Surely my grandfather needs no urging in his dedication to the cause?”
“But, my dear Count, how can you even mention such a thing?” De Merode’s eyes widened. “I desire only to be of service to his Excellency.”
I doubted that, and so, from his skeptical expression, did Stefano. What the Captain’s real motive was I could not be sure, but the result was disastrous. Grandfather was very upset. Before his anger could subside, De Merode introduced another sensitive topic.
“I had hoped to greet Count Andrea,” he said, accepting a sandwich from a tray that was offered to him. “Where is he?”
“You know Andrea,” Stefano said casually. “Always the gadfly. Actually, he has been in Rome on family business.”
“Really? That’s strange. A mutual friend mentioned to me that he had seen the Count in Genoa a few weeks ago.”
Genoa, as everyone knows, is a northern Italian city. There was no apparent reason why the name should have struck that assemblage of gentlefolk like a cannonball. Grandfather’s face had lost some of its ominous color; now the blood rushed back into his cheeks. Stefano’s eyes narrowed; Miss Rhoda made a sudden movement, her skirts rustling; and Galiana let out a little squeal.
Thanks to Miss Perkins’ interminable lectures, I knew why they had reacted as they did. From the northern part, in the darkness of night only two weeks before, the Thousand volunteers had set forth with Garibaldi for the liberation of Sicily. That they had landed, and had had some military success, we all knew, for Grandfather subscribed to the official Roman newspaper. It was always several days late in reaching us; and, as Miss Perkins liked to point out, its reporting was far from unbiased; but even the papal press was forced to admit what all the rest of the world knew— that Garibaldi’s ragged forces were making amazing headway against the trained troops of King Francis of the Two Sicilies.
“But surely,” I said—careful now to speak French, so that everyone would understand—“surely it is possible to visit Genoa for innocent reasons. Your zeal carries you too far, Captain.”
The Captain, of course, made quick disclaimers, and the conversation turned to harmless topics. Miss Perkins had been reading Manzoni’s novel I Promisi Sposi, which had become a minor classic in thirty years since its publication. She and Stefano managed to carry on a dialogue about the book. The rest of us were silent, for the most part; Galiana and I because we had not read the book, the Contessa because she seldom spoke at any time, and Grandfather because…. Well, I thought I knew his reasons.
When the Captain took his departure, he bowed gracefully over my hand, but this time I did not let it linger in his. The man was somehow sinister. I was forced to admit that my foolish vanity had led me astray. This tight-lipped fanatic, as Miss Perkins had called him. had no interest in me as a woman. He had barely glanced at Galiana, whose beauty would have held the admiring gaze of most men. He cared only for the cause in whose name he was willing to commit acts of horrible cruelty. But why had he come to visit us? Unless…
Knowing Andrea’s ardent temperament, I could imagine him taking up the cause of liberation, even though it was anathema to Grandfather. Had not Miss Perkins said that some young aristocrats followed Garibaldi? Yes, I could admit the possibility; and I am ashamed to say that my reaction to the idea was of irritation. Surely Andrea wouldn’t be so foolish! Life was pleasant here in the castle; would he risk losing all that comfort and luxury for a hopeless cause? Now was that all he stood to lose. I had not forgotten young Antonio.
II
I found the Captain’s visit even more disturbing in retrospect than it had been in actuality. Thoughts of Andrea wounded, lying in pain on the dusty plains of Sicily haunted me. The weather did not help my mood. Wind and rain brought unseasonable cold, and darkness set in early. My little room, once so cozy, seemed cramped and shabby. When Teresa had finished dressing me for supper I paced restlessly around the small chamber. Then it occurred to me that I would see how the repairs in my new rooms were progressing. I was anxious to move into them. Perhaps Grandfather would let me do so before the work was finished, if the rooms were all habitable. The bedchamber, at least, might be ready for occupation.
Snatching up a candle. I set out along the corridor. A stair, another long hallway, a second stair—all gloomy in the half-light, melancholy with the sound of the wind moaning around the windows. The rooms themselves, unlighted and desolate, only increased my gloom. It was clear that they were a long way from finished. Wood shavings, pots of paint, stained cloths lay all about. The high-ceilinged, empty rooms echoed to my footsteps. A gust of air from one of the uncurtained windows lifted a corner of a dust sheet and I started nervously. Imagine, then, my horror when I heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching. There was no reason for anyone to come here at this time of night, and in such frantic haste. The workmen had left long ago.
I worked myself into a regular melancholy fit, and was prepared for the worst. My relief was exaggerated when I saw a familiar form in the doorway.
“Grandfather,” I cried, with a nervous little laugh. “Heavens, how you frightened me.”
