The Breaking of the Storm Volume Ii Part 27

"Who is it from?"

"From the young lady, I think. It is an abominable handwriting, signor."

"Give it to me!"

Giraldi took the letter out of Antonio's hand, and stepped to the window to get the advantage of the last gleam of daylight.

A superst.i.tious dread ran through Antonio, as he saw the extraordinary speed with which the man at the window ran through the sixteen pages of the letter, of which he, who so prided himself on his knowledge of German, had hardly been able to read a line. How could he venture to enter into a struggle of cunning and skill with him, who saw through everything, knew everything as if he were in league with the evil one?

And yet, one thing he did not know, that he would have pierced him with his dagger as he stood in the window, with the evening light shining like an aureole round his head with its black locks, did he venture to deceive and betray him, as he had undoubtedly deceived and betrayed all the world besides.

Giraldi had read the last two pages more slowly than the first ones. He now read them over again. Then without saying a word, he lighted the candle which stood on his writing-table, sat down, and began as it appeared to copy out these two last pages. The pen flew over the paper almost as quickly as his eyes before over the pages. In a few minutes it was done, and he gave the letter back to Antonio. "There! now return it again to its place with the greatest care, and bring me every letter in the same handwriting. You will thereby be doing me the greatest service, and my grat.i.tude will keep pace with your willingness to help me."

"I do what I do for your sake, signor," said Antonio; "without hope or expectation of reward. The only one for which I care, even you cannot give me."

"You think so," answered Giraldi. "Boy, what do you know of what I can or cannot do? I tell you that kings tremble when they feel that Gregorio Giraldi's hand is upon them; that the Holy Father in Rome even, only knows himself to be infallible so long as I am near him. And shall I not fulfil the desire of your heart? Not give into your arms that beautiful woman, whom you may possess at any moment you choose?

Are you not young and handsome? Are you not strong and courageous? What is impossible to a handsome and young man who is strong and courageous, where a woman is in question? I tell you that the times of Saul are not yet gone by, who went out to seek his father's a.s.ses, and found a kingdom. The letter in your pocket might prove it to you. Do you fancy yourself worth less than that clumsy German sailor? Surely not. And he has won the love of a German maiden, to whom men of his position would not generally dare to lift their eyes. And now you! Do you not know that G.o.d has ever specially loved shepherds and shown Himself gracious to them? Have you never, as you drove your goats on the mountains near Tivoli, heard a voice out of the thundering cataracts of the Arno, or out of the sighing of the wind in the oak trees of Arsoli, which said, 'Poor sunburnt, ragged boy, in a few years you, a beautiful youth, dressed like the gentlemen who approach yonder in their smart carriages over the dusty roads, shall walk through streets of the capital of the northern barbarians, whose very names you do not yet know?' Believe me, my son, such voices may be heard by all, only one must understand them, as I have always understood those which speak to me. Or if you will not trust my guidance, let me speak to you through the mouth of the worthy man who protected your tender youth, and whom you may thank, that you do not still tend your goats. I had written to him about you, and how wonderful it was that you, favoured with these gifts of mind and body, should be of such low birth as are the people you have respected as your parents. And what does he reply?"

Giraldi had seized the priest's letter, and read: "'A miracle, truly, my dear sir, but are we not surrounded by miracles, so that they often appear no miracles just because they are so near us? And has G.o.d lost His omnipotence because the serpent of doubt and unbelief lifts its head now higher than ever? Can He not breathe His Spirit into a clod if He will? make the dead to live again? lighten the darkness in which the origin of so many men, and--I must admit--of our good Antonio also, is enveloped? Can He not raise up for a man who stands solitary and pines for love, a dear relation in a seeming stranger?' Look, Antonio! there it stands, written in your honoured friend's own hand."

He held out the letter to Antonio---just long enough for the youth to be certain that it really was his old preceptor's hand. He might not see what immediately followed; that according to all human calculation Antonio could not possibly be the son that Giraldi had so long lost, and whom he had so eagerly sought after, and still sought in spite of all disappointments, and for whose recovery no reward was too great.

As if overcome with emotion, he had thrown the letter into the drawer and stretched out both his hands: "Now go, in G.o.d's name, my son, and remember that no father could more truly mean well towards you than I do!"

Antonio bent down and kissed the outstretched hands, moved and conquered by the superior mental power of the man, his mind filled with a confusion of ambitious hopes and dazzling dreams of satisfied love, as quickly followed by the fear that all was but a dream and an illusion, and that this great magician was playing with him, as he himself as a boy had often, enough done with a bird fluttering on a string.

He was gone. Giraldi touched the bell. Francois came in.

"I told you that no one was to come in, without exception!"

"Monsieur had always received the young man, and he was so pressing."

"It may pa.s.s for this time; the next time you commit such a blunder, you are dismissed without appeal--mind that."

He locked his letter into his drawer.

"I will dress without a.s.sistance; see that the carriage is ready in ten minutes."

He went into the next room through which Bertalda had previously taken flight. Francois shook his fist behind him, and then again smiled his fawning smile, as if he would not admit even to himself that he had ventured to threaten the mighty man.

CHAPTER XI.

"You will see, Carla, he will not come to-day either," said Frau von Wallbach, trying to find if possible a more comfortable position in her arm-chair.

"Je le plains, je le blame, mais----"

Carla, who was sitting at the piano, played a scale very softly with her right hand.

"And Fraulein von Strummin has also gone away without paying us a farewell visit."

"Silly little thing," said Carla, repeating her scale.

"And Elsa has never once been here to apologise for the omission."

"So much the worse for her," said Carla.

"I wash my hands of the blame," said Frau von Wallbach, slowly rising and going into the reception-room which some of the dinner guests were entering.

Carla was also getting up, but remained sitting when she heard that it was a lady, and moreover one of little importance. She let her hands fall into her lap, and looked thoughtfully down before her.

"He is not half so clever, he often evidently does not understand what I say; I think even he is _un peu bete_. But he--adores me. Why should I give up my adorers for a betrothed who never troubles himself about me? He would soon drive them all away."

The door behind her into the anteroom was opened. Only intimate friends at small entertainments ever entered through this apartment--her room.

The new-comer must be either Ottomar or the Count. She had heard nothing, and as the steps came nearer over the thick carpet, let her fingers wander dreamily over the keys, "Already sends the Graal to seek the loiterer----"

"Fraulein von Wallbach!"

"Ah! my dear Count," said Carla, looking up a little, and giving the Count her left hand over her shoulder, whilst the right played "My trusty Swan." "Will you not go first and say 'how do you do' to Louisa?

She is in the drawing-room with Frau von Arnfeld."

The Count lifted the carelessly-given hand to his lips, "And then?" he asked.

"You can return here--I have something to say to you."

The Count came back in half a minute.

"Draw that chair here--not so near--there--and don't let my strumming disturb you. Do you know, my dear Count, that you are a very dangerous man!"

"My dear Fraulein von Wallbach!" cried the Count, as he twirled his moustaches.

"You must be so, when even Louisa already thinks so. She has just preached me the most charming sermon."

"But what have I done? All the world worships you; why should I not dare what all the world may do?"

"Because you are not all the world."

"Because----"

Carla lifted her eyes; the Count was always bewitched when he could look into those blue eyes, unhindered by gla.s.ses, under whose weary, drooping eyelids a secret world of tenderness and archness seemed to him to be concealed.

"Because I have come too late," he whispered pa.s.sionately.

"A man should not be too late, my dear Count; it is the worst of faults in war, in politics, in everything. You must bear the consequence of this fault--_voila tout_."

She played: