The Moon Endureth | Page 6

John Buchan
his entertainment."
"Hervey?" she repeated. "Are you one of the family of Miladi Hervey?"
"My worthy aunt," I replied, with a tender recollection of that
preposterous woman.
Madame turned to Cristine, and spoke rapidly in a whisper.
"My father, sir," she said, addressing me, "is an old frail man, little
used to the company of strangers; but in former days he has had
kindness from members of your house, and it would be a satisfaction to

him, I think, to have the privilege of your acquaintance."
She spoke with the air of a vizier who promises a traveller a sight of the
Grand Turk. I murmured my gratitude, and hastened after Gianbattista.
In an hour I had bathed, rid myself of my beard, and arrayed myself in
decent clothing. Then I strolled out to inspect the little city, admired an
altar-piece, chaffered with a Jew for a cameo, purchased some small
necessaries, and returned early in the afternoon with a noble appetite
for dinner.
The Tre Croci had been in happier days a Bishop's lodging, and
possessed a dining-hall ceiled with black oak and adorned with frescos.
It was used as a general salle a manger for all dwellers in the inn, and
there accordingly I sat down to my long-deferred meal. At first there
were no other diners, and I had two maids, as well as Gianbattista, to
attend on my wants. Presently Madame d'Albani entered, escorted by
Cristine and by a tall gaunt serving-man, who seemed no part of the
hostelry. The landlord followed, bowing civilly, and the two women
seated themselves at the little table at the farther end. "Il Signor Conte
dines in his room," said Madame to the host, who withdrew to see to
that gentleman's needs.
I found my eyes straying often to the little party in the cool twilight of
that refectory. The man-servant was so old and battered, and of such a
dignity, that he lent a touch of intrigue to the thing. He stood stiffly
behind Madame's chair, handing dishes with an air of great
reverence--the lackey of a great noble, if I had ever seen the type.
Madame never glanced toward me, but conversed sparingly with
Cristine, while she pecked delicately at her food. Her name ran in my
head with a tantalizing flavour of the familiar. Albani! D'Albani! It was
a name not uncommon in the Roman States, but I had never heard it
linked to a noble family. And yet I had somehow, somewhere; and in
the vain effort at recollection I had almost forgotten my hunger. There
was nothing bourgeois in the little lady. The austere servants, the high
manner of condescension, spake of a stock used to deference, though,
maybe, pitifully decayed in its fortunes. There was a mystery in these
quiet folk which tickled my curiosity. Romance after all was not
destined to fail me at Santa Chiara.
My doings of the afternoon were of interest to me alone. Suffice it to
say that when at nightfall I found Gianbattista the trustee of a letter. It

was from Madame, written in a fine thin hand on a delicate paper, and
it invited me to wait upon the signor her father, that evening at eight
o'clock. What caught my eye was a coronet stamped in a corner. A
coronet, I say, but in truth it was a crown, the same as surmounts the
Arms Royal of England on the sign-board of a Court tradesman. I
marvelled at the ways of foreign heraldry. Either this family of d'Albani
had higher pretensions than I had given it credit for, or it employed an
unlearned and imaginative stationer. I scribbled a line of acceptance
and went to dress.
The hour of eight found me knocking at the Count's door. The grim
serving-man admitted me to the pleasant chamber which should have
been mine own. A dozen wax candles burned in sconces, and on the
table among fruits and the remains of supper stood a handsome
candelabra of silver. A small fire of logs had been lit on the hearth, and
before it in an armchair sat a strange figure of a man. He seemed not so
much old as aged. I should have put him at sixty, but the marks he bore
were clearly less those of time than of life. There sprawled before me
the relics of noble looks. The fleshy nose, the pendulous cheek, the
drooping mouth, had once been cast in looks of manly beauty. Heavy
eyebrows above and heavy bags beneath spoiled the effect of a choleric
blue eye, which age had not dimmed. The man was gross and yet
haggard; it was not the padding of good living which clothed his bones,
but a heaviness as of some dropsical malady. I could picture him in
health
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