“Io questa notte in sogno l’ho veduto,
Era vestito tutto di broccato;
Le piume sul berretto di velluto,
Ed una spada d’oro aveva allato.
E poi m’ha detto con un bel sorriso.
Io non posso piu star da te diviso!
Da te diviso non ci posso stare,
E torno per mai piu non ti lasciare!”
These words sank as iron into his soul. Did she, he wondered, really reciprocate his concealed and unexpressed feelings? Ah no, it was impossible—all impossible.
And when she had laid aside her instrument, he commenced to describe to them the grand review of troops which he had witnessed outside Naples that morning, and how the general staff had treated him as an honoured guest.
“Ah!” sighed Madame Morini. “If we were to tell the truth, Mr Macbean, both Mary and I are tired of the very sight of uniforms and the sound of military music. Wherever my husband goes in Italy a review is always included in the programme, and we have to endure the heat and the dust of the march past. Once, when I was first married, I delighted in all the glitter and display of armed forces, but nowadays I long and ever long for retirement at dear old Orton.”
“And so do I,” declared her daughter quickly. “When I was at school in England I used to look forward to the day when I would be presented at the Quirinale and enter Roman society. But oh, the weariness of it all! I have already become sick of its glare, its uncharitableness, and its intrigues. England—yes—give me dear England, or else the quiet of San Donato. You have never been there yet, Mr Macbean,” she added, looking into his face. “When you do go, you will find it more quiet and more beautiful than Orton.”
“I have no doubt,” he said. “If it is in the Arno valley, I know how beautiful the country is there, having passed up and down from Pisa many times. Those are photographs of it in madame’s boudoir—are they not?”
“Oh yes. Ah! then you’ve noticed them,” she exclaimed. “It is a delightful old place, is it not?” His eyes were fixed upon hers, and he read in their dark depths the burden of sorrow that was there. Dubard was due back in Rome, but he had not returned, nor had she mentioned the reason. He wished to meet him—to observe what effect his presence would have upon that man who had robbed him of all the happiness of life.
The chiming of the little French clock reminded him that it was the hour to take his leave, therefore he rose, grasped the hands of the grave, kind-faced Englishwoman and her daughter, and went forth into the old-world street, striding blindly on towards his own rooms.
“Really a delightful fellow,” remarked her mother when the door had closed behind him. “His English manners are refreshing after those of all the apeish young fools whom we are compelled for the sake of policy to entertain. But,” she added, with a laugh, suddenly recollecting, “I ought not to say that, my dear, now that you are to marry a Frenchman. I married an Italian, and as far as my choice of a husband has gone, I am thankful to say I have never regretted it—even though our natures and our religions are different.”
“I will never become a Catholic—never!” declared Mary decisively. “I do not, and I shall never, believe in the confessional.”