He thought how she too would recognise the prestige of the young soldier's successes, and in what a different spirit! How often in their long talks together had they arrived at the same conclusions, but by what divergent ways? What was careless ease in her, in Dino was pure recklessness: on the one side was the freedom of unconcern, and opposed to it the freedom of desperation. And how could it well be otherwise? He was sensitive, imaginative, unlucky. And he took life hard. He could never make her understand his view of it; it was not in her temperament to understand it. 'While the sun is shining it can't be dark; and she lives in the sunshine—my darling!' he thought, with a sudden revulsion, a rush of tender feeling. And she had bid the child 'take care of Dino.' He smiled to himself as he crossed over, out of the moonlight, into the great shadow of the cathedral wall.
The café to which he was going, and where his club met, stood at the corner of two of the narrowest streets, a small, low room, lighted from the ceiling by a row of gas jets in the form of a cross. On three sides, against the wall, were large mirrors in tarnished frames; a narrow divan covered with faded red velvet ran all around the room, and in front of this was ranged a series of small marble-topped tables; three or four men were seated there, drinking coffee and playing a game of dominoes.
There was nothing at first sight to distinguish the place from any other establishment of the same rank and kind. It was a shabby second-rate café, of the stereotyped pattern; and even the police did not take much interest in it, although it was true that the landlord professed republican—or at least liberal—political sentiments. But in a seaport town that was to be expected; and if Jack ashore preferred drinking his glass of vermouth with the conviction that all men are free and equal—so long as they can pay for what they are consuming—why, it was not to be wondered at if the owner of a small public-house could be found to agree with him. The 'Cross of Savoy' was shrewdly suspected to be the headquarters of one of the branch Societies belonging to the great net-work of the Circoli Barsanti. But then, again, these said Circoli, founded early in the '70's, to commemorate the name of a certain Sergeant Barsanti, accused, whether falsely or not, of having caused the death of his commanding officer during a trifling mutiny in the barracks at Padua, and himself accordingly tried and sentenced and shot; these very Circoli, were they not existing under Government permission, if not patronage? And if Government chose to ignore the fact that some freak of popular opinion had made of the murdered sergeant a popular hero and martyr, with a name that was useful to conjure by—in a word, if the authorities saw fit to connive at the existence of these breathing-holes, these safety-valves, so to speak, of the public discontent, how in the name of common-sense were the Leghorn police to be justified in interfering? And what, in direct consequence, could be more assured than the peace of mind and general prosperity and safety of Signor Prospero Neri—respectable householder and landlord—actually seated at one of his own tables, drinking some of his own coffee with an air of confidence in, and enjoyment of, the beverage which was more than equivalent to a testimonial?
Master Prospero's peace of mind was naturally a matter of some importance in his own estimation; and yet—such a difference can be obtained in the final result by so small a change of the point of sight—within a few yards of his complacent head, in an inner room divided from the café proper by a swinging door, painted over with cupids and arabesques, a discussion was going on at that very moment which would have filled that worthy host with horror and dismay.
Three men were seated in that inner sanctum about a small round table; above their heads a gas jet, turned up too high, flared unnoticed in the draught; there were glasses on the table before them, and a dingy carafe of water, and a pack of cards. But they had not been playing. Their attitude seemed chiefly one of expectation.
After a longer silence than had hitherto fallen upon them—a silence during which the wind was distinctly audible, rattling at the window-shutters, and they could hear an occasional laugh and the click of glasses in the outer room,—'Who was it made the appointment with him? Was it you, Pietro Valdez?' asked the oldest man present. He spoke slowly, and with a strong German accent.
The man addressed looked up from his occupation of rubbing his moistened finger around the brim of his glass and thereby producing a series of minor musical notes. 'Ay,' he said; 'I told him.'
And then, after a pause, 'I'll answer for the lad,' he added slowly.
'Do you mean for his coming to-night,—or altogether?' the German asked abruptly, fixing a pair of piercing light blue eyes upon his interlocutor.
Valdez picked up his empty glass; looked into it; then put it down with a sudden movement upon the table.