The hostess, too, was preparing for rest. The yawning waiters closed up the doors and window-shutters; and poor Teresa, watching with tearful eyes all these preparations, thought only of the hours that were passing away, the dying flower, and the despair of the Count de Charney.
“A night, a whole night!” she exclaimed; “a night of which every minute will be counted by that unhappy man; while I shall be safe asleep. Nay, even to-morrow, it will be perhaps impossible for me to find a conveyance!”
And she cast her wistful eyes upon the two travellers, as if her last hope lay in their assistance. But she was still ignorant of the road they were to take, or whether they could or would be troubled with her company; and the poor girl, unaccustomed to find herself alone among strangers, still less among strangers of such a class, impelled by anxiety, but withheld by timidity, advanced a step towards them, then paused, mute, trembling, and undecided; when she was startled by the approach of a female servant, holding a candle and a key, who pointed out to her the room into which she was to retire for the night. Forced by this proposition to take some immediate step, Teresa put aside the arm of the giannina, and advancing towards the couple, engaged in munching their supper, entreated pardon for the interruption, and inquired what road they were to take on quitting Turin.
“To Alexandria, my pretty maid,” replied the woman, starting at the question.
“To Alexandria! ’Twas then my guardian angel who brought you hither!” cried Teresa, overjoyed.
“I wish he had picked out a better road, then, signorina,” cried the woman, “for we are all but ground to powder!”
“But what do you want with us? How can we serve you?” interrupted the man.
“Urgent business carries me to Alexandria. Can you give me a cast?” inquired Teresa.
“Out of the question,” said the wife.