"Temistocle," he said, "you are a youth of intelligence: you must use the gifts nature has given you."
Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of age. He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye that gave him a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master addressed him, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted smile in acknowledgment of the compliment made him.
"Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d'Astrardente means to leave Rome, and where she is going. You know somebody in the house?"
"Yes, sir—the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby of a cousin of mine—the young man who drives Prince Valdarno's private brougham: a clever fellow, too."
"And this under-cook," said Del Ferice, who was not above entering into details with his servant—"is he a discreet character?"
"Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes—" Temistocle grinned, and made a gesture which signified drinking.
"And when he is drunk?" asked Del Ferice.
"When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers anything he has been told, or has said. When he is drunk he is a dictionary; but the first draught of water washes out his memory like a slate."
"Well—give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. Here is a scudo,
Temistocle. You can make him very drunk for that."
Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.