In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the cafés, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.
No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.
During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.
“I suppose the Contéssa does not know anything of it,” I said. “The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o’clock.”
“And what was the result of your interview?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.
“She has gone, but she will return,” I replied briefly.
“And she still loves you—eh?”
“Yes; you guess correctly,” I laughed.
“So goes the world! How happy you should be—you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you’ll marry, and then per Bacco! you’ll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama.”
His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.