“‘My poor archbishop was struck dumb, and to complete his stupefaction I said to him, very gravely: “Farewell, monsignore; I will take four-and-twenty hours to think over your proposal.” The poor man added a few more entreaties, which were both ill-expressed and, considering I had bidden him “Farewell,” somewhat inopportune. Now, Count Mosca della Rovere, I desire you will inform the duchess that I will not delay for four-and-twenty hours a matter which may give her pleasure. Sit you down here, and write the archbishop the note of approval which will close the whole business.’ I wrote the note, he signed it, and he said, ‘Take it to the duchess instantly.’ Here, madam, is the note, and to it I owe the happiness of seeing you again to-night.”
The duchess perused the paper with delight. While the count had been telling his long story Fabrizio had had time to collect himself. He did not appear astonished by the incident. He took it like a true aristocrat, who had always believed in his own right to that extraordinary advancement, those lucky chances which might very well throw a common man off his balance. He expressed his gratitude, but in measured language, and ended by saying to the count:
“A good courtier should flatter the ruling passion. Yesterday you expressed your fear that your workmen at Sanguigna might steal the fragments of antique statuary they may unearth. I delight in excavations. If you will give me leave, I will go and look after those workmen. To-morrow evening, after I have paid the necessary visits, to return thanks, at the palace, and to the archbishop, I will start for Sanguigna.”
“But can you imagine,” said the duchess, “any reason for the good archbishop’s sudden devotion to Fabrizio?”
“There is no need of any imagination. The grand vicar whose brother is a captain said to me, yesterday, Father Landriani argues on this unvarying principle, that the holder of the title is superior to the coadjutor, and he is beside himself with delight at having a Del Dongo at his orders, and under an obligation conferred by himself. Everything that draws attention to Fabrizio’s high birth increases his private satisfaction—that is the man he has under him. In the second place, he likes Monsignore Fabrizio. He does not feel shy in his presence. And, finally, for the last ten years he has been nursing a hearty hatred of the Bishop of Piacenza, who openly avows his expectation of succeeding him at Parma, and who is, besides, the son of a miller. It is with an eye to this future succession that the Bishop of Piacenza has entered into close relations with the Marchesa Raversi, and this intimacy makes our archbishop tremble for his pet plan—that of seeing a Del Dongo on his staff, and of issuing his orders to him.”
Very early on the next morning but one, Fabrizio was overlooking the workers on the excavations at Sanguigna, opposite Colorno (the Versailles of the Parmese princes). These excavations stretched across the plain close to the high-road leading from Parma to the bridge of Casal-Maggiore, the nearest Austrian town. The workmen were cutting a long ditch along the plain. It was eight feet deep, and as narrow as might be. The object was to find, alongside the old Roman road, the ruins of a second temple, which, according to local tradition, had been still standing in the middle ages. Notwithstanding the prince’s authority, many peasants looked with a jealous eye on the long trenches cut across their land. In spite of everything they were told, they fancied search was being made for some treasure, and Fabrizio’s presence was particularly valuable as a check on any little outbreak on their part. He was not at all bored. He watched the work with passionate interest. Now and then some medal was turned up, and he was resolved he would not give the labourers time to agree among themselves to pilfer it.
It was about six o’clock in the morning of a lovely day. He had borrowed an old single-barrelled gun. He shot at a few larks. One of them fell wounded on the high-road. Fabrizio, when he followed it, saw a carriage in the distance, coming from Parma, and travelling toward Casal-Maggiore. He had just reloaded his gun when the vehicle, a very shabby one, came slowly up to him, and in it he recognised little Marietta. With her were the ungainly Giletti and the old woman she passed off as her mother.
Giletti took it into his head that Fabrizio had set himself thus in the middle of the road, gun in hand, with the idea of insulting him, and perhaps of carrying off little Marietta. Like a bold fellow, he jumped out of the carriage instantly. In his left hand he grasped a large and very rusty pistol, and in his right a sword, still in its scabbard, which he was in the habit of wearing when necessity obliged the manager of his company to allot him some nobleman’s part in a play.
“Ha, villain,” he cried, “I’m heartily glad to catch you here, only a league from the frontier! I’ll soon settle your business for you; your violet stockings won’t protect you here.”
Fabrizio had been making signs to little Marietta, and scarcely paying any attention to Giletti’s jealous shrieks. Suddenly he saw the muzzle of the rusty pistol within three feet of his own chest. He had only time to strike at the pistol with his gun, using it as if it had been a stick; the pistol went off, but nobody was wounded.