"Yes, grandmother. Good-morning," and he stooped to kiss her. The waxen mask was unruffled, but there was a vague and gloomy expression about the eyes that seemed at once desire and terror. "I am dying, you know, Franco," said the Marchesa. Franco protested, and repeated what the doctor had said to him. His grandmother listened, gazing eagerly at him, trying to read in his eyes if the doctor had really spoken thus. Then she answered:
"It makes no difference. I am quite ready."
From the changed expression on her face and in her voice Franco understood perfectly that she was quite ready to live twenty years longer. "I am sorry for your bereavement," said she, "and I forgive you."
Franco had not expected words of pardon from her. He had believed it was for him to bring forgiveness, not to receive it. Comforted and reassured, the Marchesa of every day was gradually reappearing beneath the Marchesa of an hour. She was willing to purchase peace of mind, but she was like the sordid miser who, having yielded to the temptation of gratifying some desire, allowed the price of his enjoyment to escape painfully from between his tightly-clasped fingers, trying the while to keep back as much as possible behind his nails. At another time Franco's wrath would have burst forth, he would have rejected that forgiveness angrily, but now, with his sweet Maria in his heart, he could not feel thus. He had however noticed that his grandmother had proffered her forgiveness to him alone. This was too much; he could not pass this over.
"My wife, my wife's uncle, and I myself have suffered much beside this last bereavement," said he, "and now we have lost our only comfort. Uncle Ribera I leave out of the question; you, I myself, all must bow before him, but if my wife and I have sinned against you, let us make forgiveness mutual."
This was a bitter pill, but the Marchesa swallowed it in silence. Although she no longer saw death at her bedside, her heart still trembled with the terror inspired by the apparition, and by certain words the prefect had spoken on hearing her confession. "I shall make a will," she said, "and I wish you to know that the whole Maironi property will go to you."
Ah, Marchesa, Marchesa! Poor, icy creature! Did she believe she could purchase peace at this price? In this the prefect also had blundered, for it was he who had advised her to make this declaration to her grandson, kind, honest man that he was, but entirely without tact, and incapable of understanding Franco's lofty soul. The idea that she might think he had been prompted by sordid motives to come to her, was intolerable to Franco. "No, no!" he exclaimed, quivering, and fearing his hot temper would get the better of him after all. "No, no! Don't leave me anything. It will be quite enough if you will allow the interest on my own money to be paid at Oria. Grandmother, you must leave the Maironi property to the Ospitale Maggiore. I fear my ancestors did very wrong to keep it."
His grandmother had not time to answer, for there came a knock at the door. The prefect entered, and offering as an excuse that he would tire the invalid, persuaded Franco to say good-bye. "You must make haste," said he, when they were outside. "You have done more than your duty here. Too many people are now aware of your presence, and the gendarmes may appear at any moment. I have arranged everything with Aliprandi. He considers a consultation necessary for the Marchesa, and will take the Villa Maironi gondola and go to Lugano for a doctor. The two boatmen will be Carlo and yourself. There are those oil-cloth cloaks with hoods. Put on one of those and remain in the stern. Now we must shave off that pointed beard of yours, and then with the hood drawn over your head, no one will possibly be able to recognise you. You will be perfectly safe. Perhaps you may not even be obliged to put in at the customs-house. At any rate, they will not recognise you. If there is any talking to be done, Carlo can do it."
The idea was good. The Marchesa's gondola was always looked upon by the agents of Austria with the greatest respect; as if it were carrying an egg of the double-headed eagle. Even when returning from Lugano it was made to stop at the customs-house simply pro forma.
It was past eight o'clock when the gondola left the boathouse. From the lofty summits the mist had descended upon the lake, and it was raining. Sad, sad day! Sad, sad journey! Neither Franco, the servant, nor Aliprandi spoke a word. They passed S. Mamette and Casarico, and then, amidst the mist beyond the olives of Mainè, the white walls of Maria's resting-place appeared. Franco's eyes filled with tears. "No, dear," he thought; "no, love; no, my life, you are not there; and I thank my God, who tells me not to believe this horrid thing!" A few strokes more and there was the little house of happy days, of bitter hours, of misfortune; there was the window of the room where Luisa was giving herself up to black grief, the loggia where, henceforth, poor old Uncle Piero would spend his days alone, that just man who was going down to the grave in silence, in tribulation, in weariness. Franco longed to know what had happened after his departure; if the police had worried Uncle Piero and Luisa. In vain he strained his eyes: no living being was to be seen either on the terrace, in the little garden, or at the windows of the loggia. All was silent, all was calm. He stopped rowing, searching for some sign of life. Dr. Aliprandi opened the door of the felze [S] and begged him to resume his rowing, begged him not betray himself. At that moment Leu came to the parapet of the little garden, with a jug in her hand; she glanced at the gondola and then entered the loggia. Uncle Piero must be in the loggia, and they were taking him the customary glass of milk, so probably nothing had happened. Franco once more began to row, and Dr. Aliprandi closed the door. They glided past the little garden, past the other houses of Oria, and the gondola turned towards the landing-stage of the customs-house.