“General Fontana,” said the prince, “you will get into my carriage, which is waiting under the colonnade, you will go to the Marchesa Raversi’s house, you will send up your name. If she is in bed you will add that you come from me, and when you reach her room, you will say these exact words, and no others: ‘Signora Marchesa Raversi, his Most Serene Highness invites you to depart to-morrow, before eight o’clock in the morning, to your castle at Velleia. His Highness will inform you when you may return to Parma.’” The prince’s eyes sought those of the duchess, who, without thanking him, as he had expected, made him an exceedingly respectful courtesy, and went swiftly out of the room.
“What a woman!” said the prince, turning toward Count Mosca.
The count, who was delighted at the Marchesa Raversi’s exile, which immensely facilitated all his ministerial actions, talked for a full half-hour, like the consummate courtier he was; his great object was to heal the sovereign’s vanity, and he did not take leave until he had thoroughly convinced him that there was no finer page in the anecdotic history of Louis XIV than that which he had just furnished for his own future historians.
When the duchess got home she closed her doors, and gave orders that nobody was to be admitted—not even the count. She wanted to be alone, and to make up her mind as to what she ought to think of the scene that had just taken place. She had acted at random, just as her fancy led her at the moment. But whatever step she might have been carried away into undertaking, she would have adhered to it steadily. She never would have blamed herself, and much less repented, when her coolness had returned. It was to these characteristics that she owed the fact that she was still, at six-and-thirty years of age, the prettiest woman at the court.
At that moment she was dreaming over all the charms Parma might possess, as she might have done on her way back there, after a long absence, so sure had she been, from nine to eleven o’clock, that she was about to leave the city forever.
“That poor dear count did cut a comical figure when he heard of my departure in the prince’s presence! He really is a charming fellow, and one does not come across such a heart as his every day. He would have resigned all his portfolios to follow me. But, then, for five whole years he has never once had to complain of any want of attention on my part. How many regularly married women could say the same to their lord and master? I must admit there is no self-importance nor pedantry about him; he never makes me feel I should like to deceive him. He always seems ashamed of his power when he is with me. How droll he looked before his lord and master! If he were here I would kiss him. But nothing on earth would induce me to undertake the task of amusing a minister who has lost his portfolio. That is an illness which nothing but death can cure, and which kills other folks. What a misfortune it must be to be a minister when you are young! I must write to him. He must know this thing officially before he quarrels with his prince. But I was forgetting my poor servants.”
The duchess rang the bell. Her women were still busy filling trunks, the carriage was standing underneath the portico, and the men were packing it. All the servants who had no work to do were standing round the carriage with tearful eyes. Cecchina, the only person allowed to enter the duchess’s room on solemn occasions, informed her mistress of all these details.
“Send them upstairs,” said the duchess. A moment later she herself went into the anteroom. “I have received a promise,” said she, addressing them, “that the sentence against my nephew will not be signed by the sovereign” (the Italian mode of expression). “I have put off my departure. We shall see whether my enemies have enough credit to get this decision altered.”
There was silence for a moment. Then the servants began to shout “Long live our lady the duchess!” and clapped their hands furiously. The duchess, who had retired into the next room, reappeared, like a popular actress, dropped a little graceful courtesy to her people, and said, “My friends, I thank you.” At that moment, on the slightest hint from her, they would all have marched in a body to attack the palace. She beckoned to one of her postillions, a former smuggler, and most trusty servant, who followed her out.
“You must dress yourself as a well-to-do peasant, you must get out of Parma as best you can; then hire a sediola, and get to Bologna as quickly as possible. You will enter Bologna, as if you were taking an ordinary walk, by the Florence gate, and you will deliver a packet, which Cecchina will give you, to Fabrizio, who is living at the Pellegrino. Fabrizio is in hiding there, and calls himself Signor Giuseppe Bossi. Do not betray him by any imprudence; do not appear to know him. My enemies may set spies upon your heels. Fabrizio will send you back here in a few hours, or a few days. It is on your way back, especially, that you must be careful not to betray him.”