But she busied herself none the less, going about with a queer little air of resignation that sat strangely on her face. He took an affectionate leave of her.
"I will not receive any one, if any one calls," she said, as he was going. He looked at her in some surprise.
"But why in the world?" he asked. "Who should call particularly? Not even Monsieur Batiscombe,—he thinks you will go with me."
Leonora felt the least faint blush mount to her cheeks, but it was dark in the hall of the villa, though it was only just dusk, and Marcantonio could not see.
"Oh, not him," said Leonora. "Only I want to be alone when you are not here." For a moment again she wished she were going.
"Enfin, my dear," he answered; "do as you prefer; it is very amiable—very gentil—of you. Adieu, chérie!" and he got into the carriage and rolled away.
But her words lay in his memory and would not be forgotten. Why should she not want to see any one? Was there any one? Why had she been so very anxious to accompany him, begging so hard that he would not leave her? After all, the only person she could be afraid of was Batiscombe. He wondered for one moment whether there had ever been anything between them; he could remember to have seen them together more than once in the winter, at balls. But then, they always met with such perfect frankness. He had not watched them, to be sure, but he must have noticed anything out of the way,—bah! it was ridiculous. Not that he wanted Batiscombe as an intimate, for the man was certainly called dangerous. He had known him for years, and had of course heard some of the stories about him,—but then, there are stories about every one, and Batiscombe had evidently become very serious since he had got himself a reputation. Besides, to see him a little, as they did in Sorrento, it could do no harm; it meant nothing, and he would think no more about it. He was not going to begin life with the ridiculous whims of a jealous husband, when he had married such an angel as Leonora—not he! Besides, Batiscombe—of all people! If it had been his sister Diana, it would have been different. Everybody knew that poor Batiscombe had loved her ten years ago, when he was as poor as Job, and had nothing but a fair position in society. But Marcantonio had been away then on his travels, being just nineteen, and having been sent out into the world to learn French and spend a little money on his own account.
Strange that he should almost have forgotten it! Not that it mattered in the least. The man had loved his sister to distraction, but had soon recognised the impossibility of such a match, and had gone away to make his fortune. He had come to see Madame de Charleroi now and then of late; Marcantonio knew that, but it was perfectly natural that they should be the best of friends after so many years. How they had first met, or what had passed between them, Marcantonio did not know, and never troubled himself to ask; perhaps he feared lest it should pain his sister to speak of it. But the whole story invested Batiscombe with a sort of air of safety as regarded Leonora. He had certainly behaved well about Diana, and nobody denied it. Nevertheless, it was best that he should not see Diana too often, especially if he intended to live in Rome, now that he had made his fortune. But Leonora—he might call if he pleased, and amuse her in the dull summer days. Carantoni would not begin life by playing the jealous husband. It was certainly odd, though, that he should have thought so little about that old story. The fact was, he had never seen so much of Batiscombe in his life as during the last week or ten days.
Meanwhile, he rolled along the road to Castellamare, and, after a great deal of shifting, found himself in the night train from Naples for Rome. He ate his sandwiches and thought affectionately of his wife as he did so; and then he lay down and slept the sleep of the just until morning.
When he reached the Palazzo Carantoni, the first piece of news he received was that Madame de Charleroi was in the house, having arrived the previous day alone,—that is to say, with her courier and her maid. The old servant volunteered the information that the vicomtesse was going to stay a week, or thereabouts, and had sent a note to the house of his Eminence, Cardinal Carantoni, the night before. Marcantonio gave instructions that she should be informed of his arrival, and that he would come and see her later in the morning, and he retired to dress and refresh himself.