Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could not with dignity make use of that will, which, both in form and in substance was dishonouring to his grandmother, arousing as it did, when the letter was considered, a suspicion of criminal suppression. The will also reflected little honour upon his father. No, never. He must tell the professor to burn both documents.
"Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph over you!" thought Franco, "Making you a free gift of the property, and of your honour as well, without even taking the trouble to tell you of it!" Revelling in this thought Franco felt almost as if he were lifted above the earth, and he drew a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his soul illumined and soothed by a sentiment of mingled generosity and pride. With all his faith and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far from suspecting that such a sentiment was not entirely good, and that a less self-conscious magnanimity would have been more noble.
He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, more disposed to rest than he had been before, thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he had heard, as one who has been on the verge of embarking upon some perilous speculation, and looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities from which he has escaped forever. Old memories were also beginning to stir in the depths of his soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant had told concerning the riches of the house of Maironi, which, she said, had been stolen from the poor. He was a child then, and the woman had not hesitated to speak in his presence. But the child had received a deep impression, and this impression had been re-awakened in his early boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had confided to him, with an air of great secrecy and solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit which had been unjustly won against the Ospedale Maggiore of Milan.
"So, through me," thought Franco, "everything has gone back to the devil."
It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he lighted the lamp once more, and consulted his watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would be impossible for him to rest. The moment which would re-unite him to Luisa was too near at hand, his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and a half more! He looked at his watch every two minutes; it seemed as if the tedious time would never pass. He took a book, but could not read. He opened the window; the air was soft, the silence profound, the lake was bright over towards S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps it would be his fate to live there in Uncle Piero's house. Gazing absently at that luminous spot, he began to imagine what the future would be, and ever-changing phantoms rose before him. At about half-past four he heard a bell ring on the lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a message from his master to the effect that if he wished to make the ascent of the Boglia it was time to start. The master had a severe headache, and could neither rise nor receive him. Franco searched on the writing-table for a sheet of paper, and wrote:
"Parce mihi, domine, quia brixiensis sum."
He went out, Pinella accompanying him with the light as far as the dark arcade, where the road to Castello begins. Then he disappeared.
The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half-past six, and ordered the maid to bring her chocolate as usual. She swallowed more than half of it before asking with the utmost composure, at what hour Don Franco had returned.
"He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa."