Edward went round to the side of the table where he was still standing, and bent his head a little. Morini dexterously placed himself between the young man and his lord and slipped a folded paper into his hand, whispering, "Read when you get home."
"Are you now convinced?" continued the Italian, aloud; but Edward, while bending down his head to listen, had kept his eyes raised thoughtfully to Montagu, and he saw—what the other had not seen—that his lord was not unaware of what had passed. He kept the paper in his hand, however, and took his leave; but, determined that, if needful, Lord Montagu should know the contents of the paper that very night, he called for a light at the foot of the stairs. He found a note in his hand, neatly folded, and tied with silk. It was addressed to him, and, on opening it, he saw a few lines beautifully written in a woman's hand, and, at the bottom of the page, "Lucette."
All other thoughts were gone; and he hurried to the abbey to read in a less exposed place.
CHAPTER XXXI.
"My Beloved Husband:—I think you will be glad to hear of me after my leaving you so shortly a few nights since. We have reached Turin in safety, and without accident; but it was a weary journey for me, as every step took me farther from the place where I wished to remain. We are going on to Venice in three days, and there I am to be placed with a Madame de la Cour, a cousin of the Duc de Rohan, and a distant relation, I am told, of my own. I am glad of it, for I cannot love the duchess. I trust this to the care of an Italian gentleman going to Aix. He passes for an astrologer; and Madame de Rohan, who is very superstitious, receives him with great distinction. She would fain have had him draw the horoscope of all the household, and we each had audiences apart. But I could tell him nothing of my own birth,—neither date, nor time, nor place. He, however, contrived to draw from me, before I well knew it, something of my history, and has promised to take this and deliver it to you secretly, if I write it quickly. He knows Lord Montagu, and is to join him at Aix. Perhaps I have been imprudent to tell him any thing; but his questions were so artfully shaped that I knew not how to answer; and I cannot resist the temptation of sending you these few words, to let you know where I am and where a letter will find me. Whenever a change occurs, I will try to find means of letting you know, in order that when our long period of separation isover you may be aware where to find your Lucette."
Such were the lines upon which Edward's eyes rested as soon as he reached his room in the abbey; and, though very simple, they gave him matter for thought during one-half of the night. That thought was all sweet; but on the following morning other considerations suggested themselves. He felt certain that Lord Montagu had seen Morini slip the paper into his hand; and there had been so much and such unusual confidence between the master and the page that Edward shrank from the idea of its being shaken even by a suspicion. Yet he could not resolve to put the note into Montagu's hands. Lucette's love had something sacred in it in his eyes, and, with the shyness of early affection, he could not bear the idea of even a jest upon the subject. He thought long while he was dressing: the servants came and went, and he had almost forgotten to tell them to follow him to the town, when Pierrot himself brought the matter to his mind by mentioning Lord Montagu's return as a rumor of the abbey.
The youth then set out for the city on foot, without having at all settled how he should act in regard to Lucette's letter. It is extraordinary how trifles sometimes embarrass us more than matters of deep moment. He had faced Richelieu himself, conscious that life hung upon the caprice or the accident of a moment, without half the hesitation he now felt. He did at last what he might as well have done at first,—left the direction of the matter to chance; for chance, unfriendly on most occasions, generally supplies us with an opportunity of acting rightly in embarrassing circumstances, if we have but the wit to take advantage of it.
When Edward entered Lord Montagu's room, he found the learned Signor Morini already there, with some papers, covered with strange characters, on a table between him and the English nobleman. Montagu gathered up the papers quickly and spoke to his page, without any allusion to the subject which principally occupied the young man's thoughts. His speech seemed somewhat dry, however, and Edward saw that the Italian gazed at him with meaning looks. A sudden thought struck him as Lord Montagu turned the conversation with Morini to some common topic, and, waiting till there was a momentary pause, he said, "By-the-way, Signor Morini, where did you leave the lady from whom you brought me a note last night? Had she gone on toward Venice?"
The Italian changed not a muscle, but replied, deliberately, "Yes: she went in the morning. I set out in the afternoon."