The Patriot Part 26

This was the idea. He would start secretly for Brescia, present himself before the Marchesa with the terrible doc.u.ment, and obtain a capitulation.

CHAPTER VII

THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP CARD

Three days later, in Milan, at five o'clock in the morning, Professor Gilardoni, m.u.f.fled up to the eyes, issued from the Albergo degli Angeli, pa.s.sed in front of the cathedral, turned into the dark street called dei Rastrelli behind a line of horses led by postilions, and entered the booking office of the public coaches. The little courtyard where the post-office now stands, was already full of people, of horses, of lanterns. To the hermit of Valsolda all these voices of postilions and of guards, this stamping of horses and jingling of bells, seemed like a real pandemonium.

The horses were being harnessed to two coaches, four to each. The Professor was going to Lodi because he had learned that the Marchesa was visiting a friend there, and the Lodi coach would start at half-past five.

It was intensely cold, and the poor Professor wandered anxiously around the ungainly carriage, stamping his feet to warm them, until presently another traveller said jestingly to him: "Cool, is it not?" "Just a little fresh! Just a little fresh!" The horses were harnessed at last, an employe called the pa.s.sengers by name, and the worthy Beniamino disappeared within the bowels of the huge vehicle, together with two priests, an old woman servant, an elderly gentleman with an enormous wart on his face, and a fashionably dressed young man. The doors were closed, an order was given, the bells jingled, the huge vehicle shook itself, the priests, the old woman, and the gentleman with the wart crossed themselves, the horses' sixteen hoofs rattled under the portal, the ma.s.sive wheels rumbled through it, and then all this noise grew fainter as the coach turned to the right, towards Porta Romana.

Now the wheels revolved almost noiselessly, and the travellers heard only the irregular beat of the sixteen hoofs on the stones. The Professor watched the pa.s.sing of dark houses, the pale glow of infrequent street lamps, the flashing light from some small coffee-house, or a vanishing sentry-box.

It seemed to him that the presence of these soldiers lent something threatening, something so formidable to the silence of the great city, that the very walls of the houses were black with hatred. When the coach entered the Corso di Porta Romana, so filled with fog that he could hardly see out of the window, he closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the pleasure of thinking of and conversing with the things and persons that filled his heart.

It was no longer the pa.s.senger with the wart who sat opposite him, but Donna Ester, all enveloped in a great black cape, a broad-brimmed hat upon her head. She was looking at him fixedly, and her lovely eyes were saying: "Well done! You are acting n.o.bly! Showing a great heart. I would not have believed it! I admire you! To me you are no longer old and ugly. Courage!" At this exhortation to have courage, he was seized with fear, for the image of the Marchesa rose before him, and the dull rumble of the wheels became the old lady's nasal voice, saying: "Won't you sit down? What can I do for you?"

At this point the coach stopped and the Professor opened his eyes. Porta Romana. An official opened the door and asked for the pa.s.sports and having collected them, carried them away. Returning again in about five minutes, he restored their pa.s.sports to all the pa.s.sengers save the fashionably dressed young man. To him he said sharply: "Come with me."

The young man turned pale, but got out in silence and did not return. In a moment or two the door was closed, and a rough voice cried: "_Avanti!_" The gentleman with the wart placed his travelling-bag on the seat that was now vacant, but none of the other pa.s.sengers gave any sign of having noticed what had happened. Only when the four horses had once more begun to trot did Gilardoni ask the priest, his neighbour, if he knew the young man's name, but the priest's only answer was a cross grunt, as he turned two terrified and suspicious eyes upon the Professor. Beniamino now looked towards the other priest, who immediately drew a rosary from his pocket and, having made the sign of the cross, began to pray. Once more the Professor closed his eyes, and the image of the unknown young man was lost for ever in the mist, like the few and phantom-like trees, the poplars and willows, slipping past on either side of the road.

"How shall I begin?" thought Gilardoni. Ever since Christmas Eve he had done nothing but imagine and debate within himself how he should present himself before the Marchesa, how introduce the subject, how explain it, and what terms he should offer. This was the only point on which he was clear. If the Marchesa would make her grandson a liberal allowance, he would destroy the doc.u.ments. He had not brought them with him, but he had copies of them. Their effect would surely be tremendous, but how should he begin? Not one of the many preambles he had thought of satisfied him. Even now with closed eyes and fancy hard at work, he was considering the question, starting from the only known factor: "Take a seat. What can I do for you?" But invariably his answer would appear to him either too obsequious or too daring, too remote from the subject or too close to it, and he would once more go back to the beginning. "What can I do for you?"

The pale light of dawn, dreary, sad, and sleepy, invaded the coach. Now that the time for the interview was approaching, a thousand doubts, a thousand fresh uncertainties upset all the Professor's plans. The very base of his calculations suddenly collapsed. What if the Marchesa should not say either, "Take a seat," or "What can I do for you?" What if she should receive him in some other embarra.s.sing manner? And what if she should not receive him at all! Merciful heavens! What then? The sudden ringing of the sixteen hoofs on a paved way set his heart to beating.

However, it was not yet the streets of Lodi, but those of Melegnano.

He reached Lodi at about nine o'clock, and got out at the Albergo del Sole, where they gave him a room without fire or sun. Not daring to brave either the fog in the street or the fumes in the kitchen, he decided to go to bed, and putting on his night-cap, which was acquainted with all his woes, he waited, a camphor cigarette between his lips, for the coming of noon and a happy thought.

At one o'clock he ascended the steps of the Palazzo X. with the wise determination to carefully forget all the speeches he had prepared, and to trust to the inspiration of the moment. A footman in a white tie ushered him into a large, dark apartment, with a brick floor, walls hung with yellow silk, and a stuccoed ceiling, and having bowed respectfully, went away. A few antique, white and gilt armchairs covered with red damask stood in a semicircle before the fireplace, where three or four enormous logs were burning slowly, behind the bra.s.s fender. The air was laden with the mixed odours of ancient mould, ancient cakes, ancient stuffs, ancient leather, and decrepit ideas, the whole forming a subtle essence of old age enough to shrivel the very soul.

The servant reappeared and announced, to Gilardoni's utter confusion, the imminent arrival of the Signora Marchesa. He waited and waited, and at last a great door, ornamented with gilding, swung open, a little moving bell tinkled, Friend trotted in, sniffing the floor to right and left, and was followed by a great bell-shaped ma.s.s of black silk, under a small cupola of white lace, while, between two blue ribbons, appeared the black wig, the marble brow, the lifeless eyes of the Marchesa herself.

"What miracle! The Professor in Lodi!" said the drowsy voice, while the small dog sniffed at the Professor's boots. Gilardoni made a low bow, and the lady, who might have been the jar containing the essence of old age, seated herself on one of the chairs near the fire, and installed her lap-dog on another; after which she motioned to Gilardoni to be seated also. "I suppose," said she, "that you have some relative at the convent of the 'Dame Inglese'?"

"No," the Professor replied, "I have not."

Sometimes the Marchesa was facetious in her own way. "Then," said she, "you probably came for a supply of _mascherponi_."[M]

"Not for that either, Signora Marchesa. I came on business."

"Indeed. You are unfortunate in the weather. I believe it is raining now."

At this unexpected digression the Professor came near losing his bearings. "Yes," said he, feeling that he was growing foolish, like the scholar whose examination is taking a bad turn. "It is drizzling."

His voice, his expression, could not fail to reveal his inward embarra.s.sment, to show the Marchesa that he had come to tell her something important. However, she carefully avoided helping him to unburden himself, and continued to talk of the weather, the cold, the dampness, a catarrh from which Friend was suffering, while the dog punctuated his mistress's recital with frequent sneezes.

The drowsy voice had a calm, almost jocose inflection, a sort of bland benevolence, and the Professor was bathed in cold sweat at the bare thought of checking this mellifluous flow, and offering in exchange the bitter pill he had in his pocket. He might have taken advantage of a pause to pour forth his preamble, but he was not equal to it, and it was the Marchesa who seized the opportunity to close the interview.

"I thank you very much for your visit," said she, "and now I am going to dismiss you, for you have your business to attend to, and, to tell the truth, I also have an engagement."

Now or never he must take the leap.

"As a matter of fact," Gilardoni began, greatly agitated, "I came to Lodi to speak with you, Signora Marchesa."

"I should never have been able to guess that," said the lady frigidly.

The Professor was carried forward by the impetus of his daring.

"It is a most urgent matter," said he, "and I must beg----"

"If it is a matter of business, you must apply to my agent in Brescia."

"Pardon me, Signora Marchesa, it is really a most important affair. No one knows and no one must know that I have come to see you. I will tell you at once that it concerns your grandson."

The Marchesa rose, and the dog that had been crouching in the armchair also sprang up, barking in Gilardoni's direction.

"Do not speak to me of that person who no longer exists for me," the old lady said solemnly. "Come, Friend!"

"No, Signora Marchesa," the Professor protested. "You cannot possibly imagine what I have to tell you."

"I do not in the least care to know. I do not wish to hear anything.

Good-day to you!"

Whereupon the inflexible old lady moved towards the door.

"Marchesa!" Beniamino called after her, while Friend, who had jumped from the chair, barked furiously around his legs. "It concerns your husband's will!"

This time the Marchesa could not but stop. She did not, however, turn round.

"This will cannot be pleasing to you," Gilardoni added rapidly. "But I have no intention of publishing it. I entreat you to listen to me, Marchesa."

She turned round. Her impenetrable face betrayed a certain emotion in the quivering of the nostrils. Nor were the shoulders entirely at rest.

"What tales have you to tell?" she retorted. "Do you think it fitting to thus inconsiderately mention my poor Franco to me? How dare you meddle with my family affairs?"

"Excuse me," the Professor repeated, searching in his pocket. "If I do not meddle some one else may do so even less considerately. Kindly examine these doc.u.ments. These----"

"Keep your scribblings to yourself," the Marchesa interrupted, seeing him draw some papers from his pocket.

"These are copies I have made----"

"I tell you to keep them, to take them away!"

The Marchesa rang the bell, and once more started to leave the room.