Franco could not at once account for the shudder that shook him when he heard his name called. Early that morning Uncle Piero had written to the Marchesa, announcing his sister's death in simple but most respectful language, and had enclosed a note from Franco himself, which ran as follows:
"Dear Grandmother,—I have not time to write to you because I am here, but I will tell you all by word of mouth to-morrow evening. I hope you will listen to me as my father and mother would have listened."
No answer had as yet come from Cressogno, but now a man from Cressogno had brought a letter. Where was this man?—Gone; he would not stop a minute. Franco took the letter and read the address: "Al. preg. Signor Ingegnere Pietro Ribera." At the same time he recognised in the writing, the hand of the agent's daughter. He went up to Uncle Piero's room at once. The engineer, who was worn out, had gone to bed.
When Franco brought him the letter he showed neither surprise nor curiosity, but said, calmly:
"Open it."
Franco placed the light on the chest of drawers, and opened the letter, keeping his back to the bed. As he stood, he seemed turned to stone; he neither breathed nor moved.
"Well?" said the uncle.
Silence.
"I understand," the old man added. Then Franco let the letter fall, and stretching his hands above his head, he uttered a long "Ah!" deep and hoarse, and laden with amazement and horror.