“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?”
“Oh, si, signor!”
“Ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?”
Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.
“Ah, gran Dio! e morto!”
“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. “So young? Impossible!”
“Eh! what will you, signor? It was la pesta; there was no remedy. La pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor.”
For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully:
“Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father’s. I have been away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living—was he married?”
The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly: