The next day we saw nothing of the count, but early Thursday morning Vincenzo knocked at my door with a note, in which Count Alvala informed me that he was my son, and begged earnestly to see the beautiful Miss St. Clair once more: he would never trouble me again. It was the only day on which we could see the Palace of the Cæsars, and would I be so good as to permit him to meet us there? I hastily penciled a few words: "I am waiting for Dr. Valery. I shall probably stay with my sick friend to-day, and Miss St. Clair will not go out without me," and sent the line by Vincenzo, happy to be rid of the importunate boy for this time.
Two hours later, when the doctor had pronounced my friend better, and I had promised Helen a walk amid the ruins of the Palatine, which I did not like to leave Rome without seeing, I went down to the roll, coffee and eggs which constitute an Italian breakfast, and there sat the count as vigilant as a sentinel. "You will go?" said he with a smile.
"I think we may," curtly.
"I shall perhaps meet you there."
When we reached the Farnese gate he was waiting there, which made the "perhaps" superfluous. We had a long ramble over the lonely hill, stretching out like a green New England pasture, but where from time to time we came unexpectedly upon flights of steps which led to massive substructures of stone, foundations of ancient palaces, and to excavated halls paved with mosaics and lined with frescoes more beautiful than those of Pompeii. There were many statues, more or less mutilated, and stately brick arches laden with a wealth of flowering shrubs, and here and there thickets of tall dark cypress trees, harmonious with ruins. My young companions were rather silent, but I fancy their thoughts were not engrossed with old historic lore. I made a conscientious effort to force mine into the ruts of association which I had supposed to be inevitable in such a spot, but the bright sunshine, the delicate blue of the distant Campagna, the living gladness of earth and air were too strong for me, and I inwardly applauded a lively American girl who interrupted her droning guide with the incisive "I don't care a snap for Cæsar."
On reaching the gate after our three hours' ramble I consigned Miss St. Clair to some friends who were waiting for her, and stepped into the count's carriage. He seemed to feel bound in honor not to speak of love to Miss St. Clair since the revelation of the Sistine Chapel, but he must have a little solace in talking to me about it. "It would be easy," said he, "if she were not fiancée, but that makes it difficult—very difficult indeed. I am glad it is not going to be for three years: that is a long time, a very long time." Then, with a sudden illumination of face and a delicious intonation of the musical voice, "Perhaps they will never marry: perhaps it will be another man—I." (Blessed infatuation of youth, with its wonderful perhapses, which never come to maturer years!)
"One of these years I shall hope to hear that you are married to a beautiful lady of your own country and your own religion."
"You never will."
"Oh yes, you will be astonished to find how easy it is to forget."
"I come of a constant race," said he proudly. "My father loved my mother, and they sent him all over the world to forget her, but he came home in five years and married her."