Clementina

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Clementina

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clementina, by A.E.W. Mason This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Clementina
Author: A.E.W. Mason
Release Date: October 1, 2004 [EBook #13567]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration: "'SIR,' SAID THE LADY IN ITALIAN, 'I NEED A POSTILLION.'"--_Page 2_.]

Clementina
By A.E.W. Mason
Author of "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler" "Parson Kelly" etc.
Illustrated by Bernard Partridge
New York Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers
1901
THIRD EDITION
UNIVERSITY PRESS JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ANDREW LANG, ESQ. AS A TOKEN OF MUCH FRIENDSHIP

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
A CHANCE MEETING II. BAD NEWS III. WOGAN MAKES A PROPOSAL IV. SHOWS THAT THERE ARE BETTER HIDING-PLACES THAN A WINDOW-CURTAIN V. SHOWS THAT A DISHONEST LANDLORD SHOULD AVOID WHITE PAINT VI. WOGAN CONTINUES HIS JOURNEY VII. WOGAN IS MISTAKEN FOR A MORE NOTABLE MAN VIII. AT SCHLESTADT IX. GAYDON MINDS HIS OWN BUSINESS X. A MONTH OF WAITING XI. THE PRINCE OF BADEN VISITS CLEMENTINA XII. THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH. IN THE STREETS OF INNSPRUCK XIII. THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH. IN CLEMENTINA'S APARTMENTS XIV. THE ESCAPE XV. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: WOGAN'S CITY OF DREAMS XVI. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: THE POTENT EFFECTS OF A WATER-JUG XVII. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: A GROWING CLOUD XVIII. WOGAN AND CLEMENTINA CONTINUE THEIR JOURNEY ALONE XIX. THE ATTACK AT PERI XX. THE GOD OF THE MACHINE DOES NOT APPEAR XXI. COMPLICATIONS AT BOLOGNA XXII. CLEMENTINA TAKES MR. WOGAN TO VISIT THE CAPRARA PALACE XXIII. WOGAN LEARNS THAT HE HAS MEDDLED XXIV. MARIA VITTORIA REAPPEARS XXV. THE LAST THE EPILOGUE

CLEMENTINA
CHAPTER I
The landlord, the lady, and Mr. Charles Wogan were all three, it seemed, in luck's way that September morning of the year 1719. Wogan was not surprised, his luck for the moment was altogether in, so that even when his horse stumbled and went lame at a desolate part of the road from Florence to Bologna, he had no doubt but that somehow fortune would serve him. His horse stepped gingerly on for a few yards, stopped, and looked round at his master. Wogan and his horse were on the best of terms. "Is it so bad as that?" said he, and dismounting he gently felt the strained leg. Then he took the bridle in his hand and walked forward, whistling as he walked.
Yet the place and the hour were most unlikely to give him succour. It was early morning, and he walked across an empty basin of the hills. The sun was not visible, though the upper air was golden and the green peaks of the hills rosy. The basin itself was filled with a broad uncoloured light, and lay naked to it and extraordinarily still. There were as yet no shadows; the road rose and dipped across low ridges of turf, a ribbon of dead and unillumined white; and the grass at any distance from the road had the darkness of peat. He led his horse forward for perhaps a mile, and then turning a corner by a knot of trees came unexpectedly upon a wayside inn. In front of the inn stood a travelling carriage with its team of horses. The backs of the horses smoked, and the candles of the lamps were still burning in the broad daylight. Mr. Wogan quickened his pace. He would beg a seat on the box to the next posting stage. Fortune had served him. As he came near he heard from the interior of the inn a woman's voice, not unmusical so much as shrill with impatience, which perpetually ordered and protested. As he came nearer he heard a man's voice obsequiously answering the protests, and as the sound of his footsteps rang in front of the inn both voices immediately stopped. The door was flung hastily open, and the landlord and the lady ran out onto the road.
"Sir," said the lady in Italian, "I need a postillion."
To Wogan's thinking she needed much more than a postillion. She needed certainly a retinue of servants. He was not quite sure that she did not need a nurse, for she was a creature of an exquisite fragility, with the pouting face of a child, and the childishness was exaggerated by a great muslin bow she wore at her throat. Her pale hair, where it showed beneath her hood, was fine as silk and as glossy; her eyes had the colour of an Italian sky at noon, and her cheeks the delicate tinge of a carnation. The many laces and ribbons, knotted about her dress in