“These are his tools. With these he accomplished those great works which have made him famous among modern artists, and by his will—at least I have spelled out so much—they were buried along with him.”
“And where was he buried?”
“Here! here in Cattaro. His last work was the altar-piece of the little chapel of the villa.”
“Was there ever so strange a coincidence!”
“The world is full of them, for it is a very small world after all. This old man, driven from place to place by police persecutions,—for he had been a great conspirator in early life, and never got rid of the taste for it,—came here as a sort a refuge, and painted the frescos of the chapel at the price of being buried at the foot of the altar, which was denied him afterwards; for they only buried there this box, with his painting utensils and his few papers. It is to these papers I wish now to direct your attention, if good luck will have it that some of them may be of use. As for me, I can do little more than guess at the contents of most of them.
“Now these,” continued he, “seem to me bills and accounts; are they such?”
“Yes, these are notes of expenses incurred in travelling; and he would seem to have been always on the road. Here is a curious note: 'Nuremberg: I like this old town much; its staid propriety and quietness suit me. I feel that I could work here; work at something greater and better than these daily efforts for mere bread. But why after all should I do more? I have none now to live for,—none to work for! Enrichetta, and her boy, gone! and Carlotta—'”
“Wait a moment,” said the lawyer, laying his hand on hers. “Enrichetta was the wife of Montague Bramleigh, and this boy their son.”
“Yes, and subsequently the father of Pracontal.”
“And how so, if he died in boyhood?” muttered he; “read on.”