Espérance held a conference with his friend after the physician's departure to decide upon what should be done. He proposed to go at once to Rome and acquaint the Viscount's family with what had happened and Giovanni's condition, but the young man firmly opposed this plan, declaring that he would be well in a few days at most and protesting that informing his relatives of his situation would involve explanations he had no desire to give. Giovanni also begged Espérance to remain with him and give no sign as to their place of retreat; so earnestly did he solicit these favors that the son of Monte-Cristo, much against his will and with many forebodings, finally consented to grant them.
Pasquale Solara returned home late on the day following the arrival of the strangers at his hut. He was an old, but sturdy shepherd, whose rough, sunburned visage spoke of exposure to the weather and hard toil. He frequently was absent for days and nights in succession, absences that he never explained and about which his son and daughter did not dare to question him, for Pasquale was a harsh man, who grew angry at the slightest pretext and was inclined to be severe with all who sought to pry into his affairs. He expressed great fear of the bandits who infested the vicinity of Rome and especially of Luigi Vampa's band, but those who knew him best shook their heads doubtingly, and, though they did not say so, it was plainly to be seen that they deemed this fear merely assumed for purposes of his own. At any rate, it was a significant fact that Pasquale was never disturbed in his wanderings, while the brigands always left his dwelling and its inmates unmolested.
The old shepherd frowned darkly when informed by his children that they had given shelter to a couple of travelers, one of whom had been wounded in a fight with a brigand, but he said nothing and appeared disposed to accept the situation without even a grumble. He did not, however, enter the chamber in which Giovanni lay and avoided coming in contact with Espérance, who caught but a passing glimpse of him ere he departed again on another expedition, which he did after a stay of only half an hour at his cabin.
The young peasant and Espérance soon became quite friendly, indulging in many a ramble in the forest and beside the gurgling brook. The peasant's name was Lorenzo, and he appeared to lead a free life, totally unencumbered with avocation of any kind, save occasionally looking after a few sheep that never strayed far from the banks of the little stream.
Annunziata for the time abandoned her visits to Rome, installing herself as Giovanni's nurse. She was almost constantly beside him, and her presence and care were more potent medicines than any the physician administered. Her smile seemed to exercise a bewitching effect upon the young Viscount, while her voice sounded in his ravished ear like the sweetest music. The handsome girl was the very picture of perfect health, and her well-developed form had all the charm of early maturity, added to youthful freshness and grace. She wore short skirts, and her shapely limbs were never encumbered with stockings, while her feet were invariably bare. A low, loose body with short sleeves displayed her robust neck and shoulders, and plump, dimpled arms that would have been the envy of a duchess. Her hands as well as her feet were not small and the sun had given them a liberal coat of brown, but they were neatly turned and attractive, while her short, taper fingers were tipped with pink, carefully trimmed nails. Altogether she looked like the spirit of the place, a delicious wood nymph as enchanting as any a poet's fancy ever created and yet a substantial, mortal reality well calculated to fire a man's blood and set his brain in a whirl. If she had appeared beautiful in Rome, amid the aristocratic fashion queens of the Piazza del Popolo, she seemed a thousand-fold more delightful and fascinating in her humble forest home, where she shook off all restraint and showed herself as she really was, a bright, innocent child of nature, as pure as the breath of heaven and as free from guile as the honey-fed butterfly of the summer sunshine.
The more Giovanni saw of her the more he came under the dominion of her irresistible charms, the empire of her physical attractiveness. Gradually he mended, and as his wound healed his strength returned. At length, towards the close of the week, he was able to quit his bed and sit in a large chair by the window of his room. It had been agreed upon between him and Espérance that, during their sojourn at the Solara cabin, they should be known respectively as Antonio Valpi and Guiseppe Sagasta, and already Annunziata had bestowed upon her patient the friendly and familiar diminutive of Tonio, a name to which he answered with wildly beating heart and eyes that spoke volumes.
By means of shrewdly managed questions the young Viscount had ascertained that the flower-girl had no lover, that her breast had never owned the tender passion, and this intelligence added fuel to the flame that was consuming him. It is not to be supposed that Annunziata was ignorant of the strong impression she had made upon her youthful and handsome patient. She was perfectly aware of it and secretly rejoiced at the manifest exhibition of the power of her charms. Perhaps she did not as yet love Giovanni, perhaps it was merely the general physical attraction of a woman towards a man, or it might have been that innate spice of coquetry common to every female, but the fact remained that she tacitly encouraged the young Viscount in his ardent attentions to her. She, moreover, lured and inflamed him in such a careless, innocent way that she acquired additional piquancy thereby. Had Annunziata been a designing woman of the world intent upon trapping a wealthy lover, instead of a pure and artless country maid totally unconscious of the harm she was working, she could not have played her game with more effect. Giovanni had become altogether her slave. He hung upon her smiles, drank her words and could hardly restrain himself in her presence. No shipwrecked mariner ever more greedily devoured with his dazzled eyes the fateful loreley of a rocky, deserted coast than he did her. Had she been his social equal, had her intelligence and education matched her personal beauty, he would have forgotten Zuleika, thrown himself impetuously at her feet and solicited her hand. As it was, while Monte-Cristo's daughter possessed his entire heart, Annunziata Solara enslaved his senses.
She received his approaches as a matter-of-course, without diffidence, without a blush. His gallant speeches pleased her, she did not know why. So thoroughly unsuspicious was she, that she failed to notice his language was not that of the untutored peasant he claimed to be, that his bearing as well as his words indicated a degree of culture and refinement far above his assumed station. She was dazzled, charmed by him as the bird is by the glittering serpent with its wicked, fascinating eyes. She thought of nothing but the present and its novel joys. She had never heeded the future—she did not heed it now.
One morning as she sat at his side by the open window, through which stole the balmy air of the forest laden with the intoxicating perfume of a thousand wild, intensely sweet flowers, Giovanni suddenly took her brown hand, covering it with passionate kisses. The girl did not resist, did not withdraw her hand from his; she did not even tremble, though a slight glow came into her cheeks, making her look like a very Circe.
"Annunziata," said Giovanni, in a low voice scarcely above a whisper, "do you care for me?"