“Sometime we must stop and take a look at these fine old palaces,” said Armstrong, leaning forward and pointing down the street. “The Antinori, for instance, has just been restored, and it has one of the most stunning Renaissance court-yards in all Florence. We shall pass by it in a moment.”
The car crossed the square of the SS. Annunziata, where they stopped for a moment again to admire Andrea Della Robbia’s swaddled babies on the façade of the Foundling Hospital, and to look up from Tacca’s statue of Duke Ferdinand to the window of the Antinori Palace, hoping for a glimpse of that face from the past, whose history is recorded by Browning in his “Statue and the Bust.” From this point the road was clearer, passing up the Via Gino Capponi, where Armstrong again pointed out the house of Andrea del Sarto—“the little house he used to be so gay in”—past the Capponi Palace, and also that of San Clemente, where lived and died the last Stuart Pretender. With increasing speed, they crossed the Viale Principe Amedeo, past the gloomy Piazza Savonarola, around the Cemetery of the Misericordia, to San Gervasio, where the real ascent began.
The sudden change from the close atmosphere of the library to the invigorating air acted as a tonic on Armstrong and his companion; and in addition to this the tension of three months’ close application was lightened. The book was actually written! Inez thought she had never seen him in so incomparable a mood, as he called her attention to many little points of interest which, during other rides, had been passed unnoticed. On they went, olive gardens alternating with splendid villas on either side, until, almost before they realized it, San Domenico was reached, and they paused to regard the magnificent panorama spread out before their eyes. Armstrong looked back and saw the Via della Piazzola behind him. Then his glance turned to the steep hill in front. In a flood of memory came back to him the details of the last time he had been there—alone with Helen, so soon after their arrival in Florence.
“I measure everything by that day at Fiesole,” she had said to him; “I believe it was the happiest day I ever spent.”
How long ago it seemed to him, and how much had happened since! She was not happy now—she had told him so with her own lips; she had even been forced to acknowledge it to Emory. He had been forgetful of her during these weeks of study; but it was over now, and he would make it up to her. When she saw him back in his old semblance again her pain would pass away, her happiness return, and the present misunderstanding be forgotten.
His thoughts of Helen reminded him of his intention to return to the villa in time for luncheon, after which he would tell her how deeply he regretted all that had happened.
“Turn around, Alfonse,” he said, looking at his watch, “and run home as fast as you can; we have hardly time to get there.”
The return toward Florence was quickly made in spite of the sudden bends and narrow roads. Turning sharply at Ponte a Mensola, Alfonse increased his speed as they approached the hill leading from the Piazza of Settignano to the villa.
“Careful at the next turn, Alfonse; it’s a nasty one,” cautioned Armstrong, aware that his instructions were being carried out too literally.
The machine was nearer to the corner than Alfonse realized. He saw the danger, and with his hand upon the emergency-brake he threw his weight upon the wheel. Something gave way, and in another moment the car crashed against the masonry wall, the engine made a few convulsive revolutions, and then lay inert and helpless.