CHAPTER VII
THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP
CARD
Three days later, in Milan, at five o'clock in the morning, Professor Gilardoni, muffled up to the eyes, issued from the Albergo degli Angeli, passed 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 employé called the passengers 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 massive 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 passing 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 passenger 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 nobly! 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 passports and having collected them, carried them away. Returning again in about five minutes, he restored their passports to all the passengers 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 passengers 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 documents. 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?"