Matchmakers of Milan’s fashionable world, who had known that the Tarsis millions were knocking at the Barbiondi gate, received the announcement of the betrothal as the extinguishment of their last hope, but in the world of creditors there was a wild rejoicing. The mortgagee lost his appetite for the last morsel of the estate. Milliners, makers of gowns and boots, purveyors of food and drink, sent in humble prayers for patronage instead of angry demands for pay. Everywhere the bloodhounds of debt slunk off the scent.
A day of mid-April was chosen for the wedding, and as it drew near Hera retained her studied air of cheerfulness, that Don Riccardo might not divine the price his peace of mind demanded of her. She rode about the countryside, sometimes with her father, oftener alone, while the task of preparation for the nuptials went forward under the willing hand of Aunt Beatrice. To that contented woman the bride-elect’s lukewarm interest in the affair was a source of wonder. With eyes uplifted and hands clasped she paused now and then to ask if ever Heaven had given an aunt a niece of such scant enthusiasm. Such was the situation the day that Hera had her adventure on the river. No experience of life had dwelt so pleasantly in her thought as the meeting and converse with Mario Forza. No coming event had ever interested her so warmly as that he was going to dine in Villa Barbiondi—that she was going to meet him again.
She spent the closing hours of Wednesday afternoon at her window looking over the river toward the fields and buildings of the Social Dairy. She saw one herd after another wind its way homeward up the pass and watched eagerly for the coming forth of Mario. When the file of poplars that bordered the highway by the river were casting their longest shadows she saw him ride out and begin the descent of the hill. For some time she was able to keep him in view as he trotted his horse along the level road. When he came upon the Bridge of Speranza—the waters had not ended their spree—she was conscious of a new anxiety, and when he had gained the nearer shore she felt a strange relief. A little while and the shadows of the poplars were neither short nor long, and darkness hid him from sight. Presently the voice of her father, raised in welcome, mingled with the most genial tones of Donna Beatrice, sounding up the staircase, told her that he had arrived.
“Ha, my friend!” she heard Don Riccardo saying, “this is the greatest of delights. Why, I knew your father, sir. The Marquis and I served the old king. And a gay service it was for blades who knew how to be gay. Magnificent old days!”
“I heard much of you, Don Riccardo, from my father,” Mario said.
“And I have heard much of you since you came to Milan,” the other returned. “But I never recognised you without the title; nor in the dim light of the other night did I see my old comrade in your face. But I see him now. By my faith! you take me back thirty years. And pictures of you—marvellous pictures—have I seen in the newspapers. I remember one in particular,” he ran on, a gleam in his eye. “It portrayed the Honourable Forza in action, if you please. I think he was performing a feat no more difficult than getting out of a carriage; but the camera immortalised him as an expert in the art of standing on one foot and placing the other in his overcoat pocket.”
Hera was with them now joining in the laughter. Donna Beatrice thanked Mario effusively for saving the life of Hera. The more she had reflected on the deed the more heroic it had grown in her sight. Her gratitude had its golden grain, for the fact loomed large to her mind that but for his timely action there might have been no forthcoming marriage with Antonio Tarsis, no saving of the Barbiondi ship. She was prodigal in her praise of his knightly valour, as she called it, and declared that the age of chivalry still lived. At this point a footman came to Mario’s rescue by announcing that the vermouth was served.
“And what of the progress toward peace in the human family, Honourable?” asked Don Riccardo, merrily, as they took their places at table.
Mario answered that the progress, as to the branch of the human family known as Italian, was for the time being somewhat backward. “The trouble with our party,” he said, “is that we can’t break ourselves of the habit of being right at the wrong time. Our foes are better strategists. They are wise enough to be wrong at the right time.”
“And what is this New Democracy all about, Signor Forza?” asked Donna Beatrice, as she might have asked concerning some doing on the island of Guam.