"It will take your name, Bonnacorsi, and will not return it, that is all," replied Florence, "and the proverb will be verified!—We have a proverb, too, in the United States, one that Lincoln used to quote. You ought to take note of it, for it will put an end to all your fears. It is not very, very pretty, particularly to apply to a marriage, but it is very expressive. It is, 'Don't trouble how to cross a mud creek before you get to it.'"
"But suppose Lord Bohun has changed his mind and the Dalilah is in the port with my brother on board? Suppose the Chésys want to come with us? Suppose Prince Fregoso at the last minute refuses to lend us his chapel?"
"And suppose Corancez says, 'I will not' at the altar?" interrupted Florence. "Suppose an earthquake engulfs the lot of us?—Don't be uneasy, the Dalilah is riding at anchor in the roadstead at Calvi or Bastia. The Chésys and my uncle have five or six English and American yachts to visit, and it is madness to think that they will sacrifice this arrangement for the sake of going with us to museums and churches. Since the old prince has consented to lend his place to Don Fortunato it is not likely that he has changed his mind—particularly as he and the abbé were companions in prison in 1859. Between Italians anything concerning the Risorgimento is sacred. You know that better than I do. I have only one fear," she added with a gay laugh, "and that is that this Fregoso may have sold some of his finest paintings and his most beautiful statuary to one of my countrymen. Those pirates loot everything, under the plea that they have not only the money but also good taste, and that they are connoisseurs. Would you believe it, when I was at college in Marionville, the professor of archæology taught us the history of Grecian art anterior to Phidias with the aid of photographs of specimens in the collection belonging to this very Fregoso?"
"Well, what did I tell you?" Florence Marsh again asked her friend, a couple of hours later. "Was I right? Have you come to the mud creek?"
The passengers had landed, just as had been prearranged. The Chésys and Dickie Marsh had gone off to visit the fleet of pleasure yachts moored near the pier. The Marchesa had received a telegram from Navagero announcing the arrival of the Dalilah in Corsican waters. And now a hired landau was bearing the tender-hearted woman, in company with Florence, Madame de Carlsberg, and Pierre Hautefeuille, toward the Genoese palace, where Corancez was awaiting them. The carriage climbed up the narrow streets, passing the painted façades of the old marble houses whose columns, all over the city, testify to the pretentious opulence of the old half-noble, half-piratical merchants. All along the route the streets, or rather the corridors, that descended to the port swarmed with a chattering, active, gesticulating people. Although the north wind was now blowing keenly, the three women had insisted upon the carriage being left open, so that they could see the crowd, the crumbling, splendid façades, and the picturesque costumes. The Marchesa smiled, still agitated, but now happy, in reply to Miss Marsh's words of encouragement, as she said:—
"Yes, you were right. I am not afraid now, and begin to think that I am awake and not dreaming.—Yet, if any one had told me that some day I should go with you three along the Piazza delle Fontane Morose to do what I am going to do.—Ah! Jésus Dieu! there is Corancez!—How imprudent he is!"
It was, indeed, the Provençal. He was standing at the corner of the famous square and the ancient via Nuova, now the via Garibaldi, the street which Galéas Alessi, Michael Angelo's pupil, glorified with the palaces of Cambiaso, Serra, Spinola, Doria, Brignole-Sale, and Fregoso, masterpieces of imposing architecture that, by themselves, are sufficient justification for the title of Superb, given to Genoa by its arrogant citizens.
It was certainly ill-advised to venture into the streets, risking a meeting with some French acquaintance. But Corancez had not been able to resist the temptation. He was playing for such high stakes that for once his nervousness had overmastered the natural prudence of the Provençal, ordinarily patient and circumspect, one of those people for whom the Genoese would seem to have invented this maxim: "He who is patient will buy thrushes for a liard each."
By means of a messenger he had been informed of the arrival of the Jenny. He had then left the safe shelter of the palace so as to be sure that his fiancée had arrived. When he saw the beautiful golden hair of Madame Bonnacorsi, a wave of hot blood seemed to course through his veins. He jumped upon the carriage-step gayly, boyishly even, without waiting for the carriage to stop. Without any more delay than was required to kiss his betrothed's hand, to utter a word of welcome to Madame de Carlsberg and Florence, and to greet Hautefeuille gratefully, he began to tell of his two weeks' exile with his usual gayety.
"Don Fortunato and I are already a couple of excellent friends," he said. "Wait till you see what a comical little fellow he is with his knee-breeches and big hat. You know him, Marchesa, so you can imagine. I am already his figlio mio!—As for you, Andryana, he worships you. He has written, specially for you, an epithalamium in fifty-eight cantos!—And yet this religious marriage without the civil ceremony disquiets him.—What would Count Camillo Cavour, whose walking-stick and portrait he piously cherishes, have said of it? Between Cavour and the Marchesa, the Marchesa and Cavour, he has been hard pushed to make a choice. However, he has thrown in his lot with the Marchesa, a decision that I understand very easily. All the same, he is now afraid to even glance at the portrait and the stick, and will not dare to do so until we have complied with all the requirements of the Italian law.—I vowed to him that there would only be a delay of a few days, and then Prince Pierre reassured him.—That is another character.—You will have to visit the museum and see his favorites there.—But, here we are!"