"He is, your ladyship. I do not know whether you will consider that I acted wisely in taking such a step, but I could see no alternative. He arrived here alone about a fortnight ago, and at that time there seemed to be nothing singular about him excepting his clothing, and a certain nervousness which the servants marked in his manner, and which we can scarcely wonder at, considering his painful history and recent return to—er—civilized ways. He left the hotel almost immediately after engaging his room, and was away, I believe, for several hours. I chanced to be in the hall on his return, and was struck by the change in his appearance. Your ladyship, I never saw a man on whose face was written such dumb and helpless agony. He went straight to his room, and since then has never left it. He is simply pining to death there. He neither eats, nor drinks, nor speaks. He sits there, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, like a man waiting for his end. I ventured to visit him one morning, but my attempts at remonstrance were cut short at once in a most dignified fashion. I feel that it would be heartless to ask him to leave the hotel; but, at the same time, if he remains, and continues in the same way, he will certainly either die or go mad very shortly. What he wants is the personal care of friends, and very kind treatment; and as I could think of no other way of communication with them, I decided to advertise his presence here. I trust that your ladyship does not think my interference officious?"
He bowed his head, and turned away out of respect for the tears which he could see in her eyes, and which she made scarcely an effort to conceal.
"No; you did quite right," she said after a moment's pause. "I was waiting for my husband outside the club, and quite by chance I took up the Post and saw your paragraph. I drove here at once. Will you show me to the Count's rooms, if you please?"
"Certainly, your ladyship. Will you come this way?"
She followed him up the fine marble staircase and down the first-floor corridor. At the extreme end he paused outside a door.
"It is of no use knocking," he said; "he never answers. If I can be of any further service, your ladyship will perhaps be so good as to ring the bell."
He opened the door for her, and closed it quietly as she entered. Then he retreated along the corridor, and returned to his room, wondering not a little at the visitor whom his advertisement had brought.
The great room in which the Count Marioni was sitting was almost in darkness, for the afternoon was dull and foggy, and the curtains were partially closed. There was no lamp lit, and the only light came from the brightly-burning fire near which the Count was sitting in an armchair ludicrously too large for his frail body. The flames fell upon his white, worn face, with its deep branding lines, and gleamed in his great sad eyes, so bright and dry that they seemed like mirrors for the firelight. His hair and short unkempt beard were as white as snow, matching even the unnatural pallor of his skin, and his black frock coat was buttoned across a chest which would have been narrow for a consumptive boy. He did, indeed, look on the threshold of death.
He had not turned his head at the opening or closing of the door, but presently another sound broke the silence. It was a woman's sob, and as he slowly turned his head, a tall, graceful figure moved forward out of the shadows, and he heard his name softly murmured.
"Leonardo!"