"To-night, it might be to-night. If he goes to Leghorn, he meets his future wife; another life, and perhaps a dozen. No, it must be to-night or never. Does his mother go? Fool that I am not to ask! Yes; it shall be to-night;" and he left the room.
What should be "to-night?" Some foul play of which the count would be the victim, no doubt. But how? when? That must be solved. To follow him, or to wait—which? To wait. It is always best to wait; I had learned this lesson already.
I waited. It was now rather more than half-past eight, and I had risen to go to the door when I saw the guard returning to the wine-shop with a man whose dress indicated the stoker.
"Come in, Guido; come in," said the guard; "and drink with me."
The man came in, and I was again absorbed in my book.
They seated themselves at the same table as before, and drank silently for a while; presently the guard began a conversation in some patois I could not understand; but I could see the stoker grow more and more interested as the name of Beatrix occurred more frequently.
As the talk went on, the stoker seemed pressing the guard on some part of the story with a most vindictive eagerness, repeatedly asking, "His name? The accursed! His name?"
At last the guard answered, "The Count Spezzato."
"The Count Spezzato!" said the stoker, now leaving the table, and speaking in Italian.
"Yes, good Guido; the man who will travel in the train we take to-night to Leghorn."