Castiglione walked briskly to the Piazza di Spagna, and then slackened his pace and drew a long breath before he lit a cigar, and repeated to himself the words that were written on the paper in his pocket. He walked slowly home, and when he was in his own room he spread the sheet out and wrote below Rodolfo Blosse’s signature: ‘Witness, Baldassare del Castiglione, Piedmont Lancers.’ Then he folded the sheet again, placed it in an envelope, which he sealed and addressed to the ‘Reverend Father Bonaventura of the Capuchins.’
He got into his uniform again, and having placed the envelope in the inner pocket of his tunic, he went to see his colonel, to whom he had telephoned before going to Via Belsiana, asking to be received on urgent business at three in the afternoon. The great clock in the hall rang the Westminster chimes as he entered; it was a remembrance of the time when Casalmaggiore had been military attaché at the Italian Embassy in London.
He gave Castiglione an enormous Havana as they sat down by the fire, and he lit one himself and offered to have Turkish coffee made. Castiglione had forgotten to eat anything since he had come in from riding in the morning, and he accepted gladly.
‘Is it about that mare?’ asked the Duca when he had rung and given the order.
‘No, not this time.’ Castiglione laughed. ‘I have come for advice in an affair of honour.’
‘Oh!’ The Colonel seemed annoyed. ‘What a nuisance!’ he observed with some emphasis. ‘Wait till the man has brought the coffee. Meanwhile, about that other matter—you have heard of my last offer?’
The Count of Montalto’s Andalusian mare happened to be the only thing, animate or inanimate, which the Duca di Casalmaggiore wanted and could not get; for he did not even hanker after promotion. There was not an officer in his regiment, old or young, whom he had not employed in some piece of diplomacy in the hope of getting possession of the coveted animal, and he began talking about her at once, showing little inclination to listen to Castiglione’s story, even when the servant had come and gone and they were drinking their coffee. He quite ignored the fact that Castiglione and Montalto were not on speaking terms, or he pretended to do so, for which the younger man was, on the whole, grateful to him.
‘I am very sorry to change the subject,’ said the Captain, at last, ‘but this affair of mine is rather urgent.’
‘I had quite forgotten it! Pray excuse me and tell me what the matter is.’