They drove about and saw what was to be seen,—the great squares, the memorial statues, the armory, where the mail-clad wooden knights sit silently on their mail-clad wooden horses, and they drove out at last to Moncalieri, in the cool of the evening. The confidential servant sat on the box and directed the driver, pointing out to Diana and Marcantonio the various objects of interest, so that Carantoni suspected nothing. The man acted his part perfectly.
"How charming it is here!" exclaimed Marcantonio, admiring the trees, and the life, and the gay colours at Moncalieri. "Why did we not think of coming here before, my dear?" He spoke in French, which he rarely did with his sister, though he had always done so with his wife. Diana hardly noticed it at the moment,—she was obliged to answer something.
"It was hardly the right season for it before this, I suppose," said she. "But now we can stay as long as we please."
"Oh yes," said he, in his old way, "if it is agreeable to you, I ask nothing better. It is infinitely more pleasant than Sorrento. I never liked Sorrento, I cannot tell why. It never wholly agreed with you, mon ange—n'est-ce-pas?"
"I was always well there,—well enough, at least," answered Diana, puzzled at this new phase of his humour.
"Ah no, you were never well after Diana left us. She is so good, she makes every one well!" He spoke pleasantly and naturally.
It was horrible, and Diana started with a new realisation of his state. He no longer recognised persons,—he took her for Leonora!
But some new object attracted his attention, and he chattered on, almost to himself, almost childishly, but with a sweet smile on his pale, delicate face. Diana could scarcely restrain her tears,—she who had not wept for years until lately!
Poor Diana! Batiscombe and Leonora were sinfully, wholly, happy with each other,—Batiscombe selfishly so, perhaps, but none the less for that, and Leonora with a wild delight in her new life, that swallowed up the past and gilded the present. Even poor, crazy Marcantonio, chattering and making small French jokes about the people's dresses at Moncalieri, was happy for the moment. Only Diana, the brave woman who had fought for the right so well, seemed cut off from it all, bearing the whole burden on her shoulders, and silently bowing her queenly head to the storm of woe and grief and destruction.