The Cardinals Snuff-Box | Page 5

is an ascertained fact that
no condition of the weather ever contents the farmers."
The Duchessa laughed.
"Ah, well," she consented, "then I 'll join in your hope that the fine
weather may last. I--I trust," she was so good as to add, "that you're not
entirely uncomfortable at Villa Floriano?"
"I dare n't allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano," he replied. "I
should become dithyrambic. It's too adorable."
"It has a pretty garden, and--I remember--you admired the view," the
Duchessa said. "And that old Marietta? I trust she does for you fairly
well?" Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some
part humorous?) concern.
"She does for me to perfection. That old Marietta is a priceless old
jewel," Peter vowed.
"A good cook?" questioned the Duchessa.
"A good cook--but also a counsellor and friend. And with a flow of
language!"
The Duchessa laughed again.
"Oh, these Lombard peasant women. They are untiring chatterers."
"I 'm not sure," Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, "that
Marietta is n't equally untiring as a listener. In fact, there's only one
respect in which she has disappointed me."
"Oh--?" said the Duchessa. And her raised eyebrows demanded
particulars.

"She swears she does n't wear a dagger in her garter--has never heard of
such a practice," Peter explained. "And now," he whispered to his soul,
"we 'll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature."
Still again the Duchessa laughed. And, apparently, she was up in
modern literature. At any rate--
"Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast," she reminded him.
"We are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea. But you had best be
on your guard, none the less." She shook her head, in warning.
"Through all this country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a
witch."
"If she's a witch," said Peter, undismayed, "her usefulness will be
doubled. I shall put her to the test directly I get home."
"Sprinkle her with holy water?" laughed the Duchessa. "Have a care. If
she should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you'd
never forgive yourself."
Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young
companion.
The sprightly French bays tossed their heads, making the harness tinkle.
The footman mounted the box. The carriage rolled away.
But Peter remained for quite a minute motionless on the door-step,
gazing, bemused, down the long, straight, improbable village street,
with its poplars, its bridge, its ancient stone cross, its irregular pink and
yellow houses--as improbable as a street in opera-bouffe. A thin cloud
of dust floated after the carriage, a thin screen of white dust, which, in
the sun, looked like a fume of silver.
"I think I could put my finger on a witch worth two of Marietta," he
said, in the end." And thus we see," he added, struck by something
perhaps not altogether novel in his own reflection, "how the primary
emotions, being perennial, tend to express themselves in perennial
formulae."

VI
Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed
young girl might have been.
"The Signorina Emilia," Marietta promptly informed him.
"Really and truly?" questioned he.
"Ang," affirmed Marietta, with the national jerk of the head; "the
Signorina Emilia Manfredi--the daughter of the Duca."
"Oh--? Then the Duca was married before?" concluded Peter, with
simplicity.
"Che-e-e!" scoffed Marietta, on her highest note. "Married? He?" Then
she winked and nodded--as one man of the world to another. "Ma
molto porn! La mamma fu robaccia di Milano. But after his death, the
Duchessa had her brought to the castle. She is the same as adopted."
"That looks as if your Duchessa's heart were in the right place, after
all," commented Peter.
"Gia," agreed Marietta.
"Hang the right place!" cried he. "What's the good of telling me her
heart is in the right place, if the right place is inaccessible?"
But Marietta only looked bewildered.
He lived in his garden, he haunted the riverside, he made a daily
pilgrimage to the village post, he thoroughly neglected the work he had
come to this quiet spot to do. But a week passed, during which he never
once beheld so much as the shadow of the Duchessa.
On Sunday he trudged his mile, through the sun, and up the hill, not
only to both Masses, but to Vespers and Benediction.

She was present at none of these offices.
"The Pagan!" he exclaimed.

VII
Up at the castle, on the broad marble terrace, where clematis and
jessamine climbed over the balustrade and twined about its pilasters,
where oleanders grew in tall marble urns and shed their roseate petals
on the pavement, Beatrice, dressed for dinner, in white, with pearls in
her hair, and pearls round her throat, was walking slowly backwards
and forwards,