Everything was therefore arranged in the most natural manner. A fortnight was the time allowed for the projected excursion. The Steinbergs, deceived like the rest, were as much overjoyed as surprised at the prospect of a pleasure they had not dared anticipate, and thus everything fell in with the princess’ wishes without her appearing to do anything but yield to the desires of the rest.
The Steinbergs were to leave the following morning. This last day was to be devoted to revisiting several museums, and would end with a walk to San Miniato. Fleurange boldly proposed to join them. A feverish agitation made inaction insupportable. She feared finding herself alone with George for an instant, and was sure of being readily dispensed from her attendance on this last day. The princess’ consent, in fact, was not difficult to obtain, and towards the middle of the day Fleurange set out with Julian and Clara for the Palazzo Pitti. After visiting that gallery and several others they continued their ride, and at length stopped at the foot of the ascent to San Miniato. There they left the carriage. While slowly ascending the steep hill, Fleurange took out the paper that fell from her bouquet the night before, and gave it to Julian to read, telling him the suspicion which had arisen in her mind.
“It is strange,” said the latter with an anxious look, after reading the note and carefully examining the writing. “Nothing could be more painful now than to meet Felix again, and yet this paper only reawakens a previous suspicion respecting him.”
“You had already suspected his return to Europe?”
“Yes, but only from a slight indication, and I should not have mentioned it if this new incident had not occurred. Several months ago, I was making some necessary researches at Bologna, when my attention was drawn to a work in the library in which I was taking notes. There was a question of some contested historical point, respecting which several passages had been copied from the curious manuscripts in the library. The writing was but recently interrupted, as was evident from the open page. I was reading it with a good deal of interest when my attention was completely withdrawn from the subject of the work by some words scribbled almost illegibly on a paper the copyist had used to try his pen on. Your name, Gabrielle, was written on it several times; then the two letters F. D.; and finally, ‘Felix—happy; what irony—Felix!’ I examined the extracts with increased attention. The writing did not look like his, but was a studied fac-simile of the manuscript he was copying. As to the scribbling on the loose paper, it was wholly unrecognizable. I asked the librarian some questions, and learned that the work was for some great Florentine nobleman whose name he was ignorant of, but the copyist was an Italian named Fabiano Dini.”
“Is that all?” asked Fleurange. “Were you not able to learn anything more definite?”
“Nothing. The next day the unfinished work had disappeared, and during the remainder of my stay at Bologna the copyist did not return to the library. I kept the scrawl that had puzzled me, but thought no more about it. Allow me to retain this note, that I may compare the writing with that.”
“Could it really have been Felix? Or is all this a mere accident?”
“It is impossible to tell. It might have been he, for you know he had a thorough knowledge of Italian, and it might also have been one of his friends familiar with his history. All we have ever been able to discover respecting him is, that he went to America with questionable travelling companions—Italians, Germans, and Poles—mostly driven out of their own country for good reasons.”
Clara’s smiling face grew sad during this account, and Fleurange felt her heart contract with increased melancholy. This revival of one of the saddest memories of her life seemed to add a mournful presage to the sad realities of the day.