“I should think so indeed,” said Ludovico. “With a bloody shirt like yours, I don’t understand how you ever dared to go into such a place. As for the wounds, I know all about that sort of thing. I’ll take you to a nice cool place where you can sleep for an hour; the boat will come to fetch us there, if there’s a boat to be had. If not, when you’re a little rested we’ll go on two short leagues farther, and I’ll take you to a mill where I can get a boat myself. Your Excellency knows a great deal more than I do; my mistress will be in despair when she hears of the accident. She will be told you are mortally wounded, or perhaps that you have killed the other treacherously. The Marchesa Raversi will not fail to put about every kind of spiteful report to distress my mistress. Your Excellency might write.”
“And how shall I send my letter?”
“The men at the mill to which we are going earn twelve sous a day; they can get to Parma in a day and a half—that means four francs for the journey, and two francs for the wear and tear of their shoes. If the message was carried for a poor man like myself it would cost six francs; as it will be done for a nobleman, I will give twelve.”
When they reached the resting-place, in a thicket of alder and willow trees, very cool and shady, Ludovico went on an hour’s distance to fetch paper and ink. “Heavens! how comfortable I am here!” exclaimed Fabrizio; “fortune, farewell! I shall never be an archbishop.”
When Ludovico returned he found him sound asleep, and would not wake him. The boat did not come till near sunset. As soon as Ludovico saw it appearing in the distance, he roused Fabrizio, who wrote two letters.
“Your Excellency is very much wiser than I am,” said Ludovico, with a look of distress, “and I am afraid you will be displeased with me at the bottom of your heart, whatever you may say, if I add a certain thing.”
“I am not such an idiot as you think,” said Fabrizio. “And whatever you may say to me, I shall always look upon you as a faithful servant of my aunt’s, and a man who has done everything in the world to help me out of a very terrible difficulty.”
A good many further protestations were necessary before Ludovico could be induced to speak, and when he finally made up his mind he began with a preface which lasted quite five minutes. Fabrizio grew impatient, and then he thought: “Whose fault is this? The fault of our vanity, which this man has seen very clearly from his coach-box?” At last Ludovico’s devotion induced him to run the risk of speaking frankly.
“What would not the Marchesa Raversi give the runner you are going to send to Parma for those two letters? They are written by your own hand, and therefore can be used as evidence against you. Your Excellency will take me for an indiscreet and curious person, and besides, you will be ashamed, perhaps, to let the duchess see a poor coachman’s handwriting. But for the sake of your safety, I am forced to speak, even if you do think it an impertinence. Could not your Excellency dictate those two letters to me? Then I should be the only person compromised, and very little compromised at that, for I could always say that you made your appearance in front of me in a field, with an inkhorn in one hand and a pistol in the other, and ordered me to write.”
“Give me your hand, my dear Ludovico,” cried Fabrizio; “and to convince you I have no desire to keep anything secret from such a friend, you shall copy these two letters just as they are.” Ludovico realized the full extent of this mark of confidence, and was very much touched by it, but at the end of a few lines, seeing the boat coming rapidly toward them—