Castiglione’s hand dropped upon his knee, holding the open telegram. The orderly stood motionless, stolidly waiting to be sent away. He would have waited in the same position till he dropped, but it seemed a long time before the officer turned his head.
‘Pack everything to-night,’ he said. ‘Telephone in my name to the station and order a box for the horses as far as Pisa, and be ready to start with them by the first train to-morrow. I am to join the Piedmont Lancers in Rome at once. You will spend the night in Pisa to rest the horses, and come on with them the next day. I will attend to your leave and pass. Take what you need for yourself for four days. You will have a day and a night in Rome.’
The orderly was a good man and could be trusted. Castiglione got into his best tunic, buckled on his sabre, took his cap and gloves, thrust the telegram into his breast pocket, and went to take leave of his colonel and his brother officers, wherever he might find them. He was in no hurry, but it was a relief to get out of doors, and he walked slowly along the broad pavement, returning the salutes of the many soldiers who passed him.
It would be quite out of the question to disobey such a summons as he had just received. Nothing short of a feigned illness could have excused a short delay, and besides, the wording of the telegram showed that he was wanted for the honour of his old regiment in the coming races. He had always been the best rider of them all, and if the Piedmont Lancers did not make a good appearance, owing to his voluntary absence, he would not be easily forgiven; indeed, he would hardly have forgiven himself.
But he would not write or telegraph to Maria that he was coming, and he was sure that she would not write to him again unless he answered her letter. Once in Rome, he meant to send her the telegram he had in his pocket, to prove that he had been ordered back, and that his coming had not been voluntary. She would see him then, for it would be different; she could not refuse, as she might if she thought he had come in spite of her letter. His exchange had been at most but a matter of days; it had become a matter of hours. So much the better, since fate condescended to help him a little.
The vision of hope he had enjoyed so short a time rose before him again. Montalto might not return after all, or he might break his neck on the way, but Castiglione doubted the probability of such a termination to his own troubles.
CHAPTER X
The workmen were very busy at the Palazzo Montalto, and the rich widow from Chicago who occupied one of the large apartments was a little nervous, for there is a clause in all leases of portions of Roman palaces to the effect that the owner may turn any tenant out at short notice if he needs the rooms for his own use; and as the good lady had not the slightest idea of the real size of the place, she had long supposed that she was living in the state apartment.