A moment he hesitated in the doorway, looking from one to the other, and Francesco, lazily regarding him in his turn, noted that his cheeks were pale and that his eyes glittered like those of a man with the fever. Then he stepped forward, and, leaving the door open behind him, he advanced into the room.
“Monna Valentina, I have something to communicate to you.” His voice shook slightly. “Messer—Francesco, will you give us leave?” And his feverish eyes moved to the open door with an eloquence that asked no words.
Francesco rose slowly, endeavouring to repress his surprise and glanced across at Valentina, as if awaiting her confirmation or refusal of this request that he should leave them.
“A communication for me?” she marvelled, a slight frown drawing her brows together. “Of what nature, sir?”
“Of a nature as important as it is private.”
She raised her chin, and with a patient smile she seemed to beg of Francesco that he would suffer her to humour this mood of Gonzaga's. In quick obedience Francesco inclined his head.
“I shall be in my chamber until the hour of my rounds, Madonna,” he announced, and with that took his departure.
Gonzaga attended him to the door, which he closed after him, and composing his features to an expression of sorrowing indignation, he came back and stood facing Valentina across the table.
“Madonna,” he said, “I would to Heaven this communication I have to make to you came from other lips. In the light of what has passed—here at Roccaleone—through my folly—you—you may think my mission charged with vindictiveness.”
Perplexity stared at him from her eyes.