"Well--? You perceive my difficulty. Do you think you could make me one?" said Peter.

"Make the Signorino a dress-coat? I? Oh, no, Signorino." Marietta shook her head.

"I feared as much," he acknowledged. "Is there a decent tailor in the village?"

"No, Signorino."

"Nor in the whole length and breadth of this peninsula, if you come to that. Well, what am I to do? How am I to dine with a cardinal? Do you think a cardinal would have a fit if a man were to dine with him in a dina giacca?"

"Have a fit? Why should he have a fit, Signorino?" Marietta blinked.

"Would he do anything to the man? Would he launch the awful curses of the Church at him, for instance?"

"Mache, Signorino!" She struck an att.i.tude that put to scorn his apprehensions.

"I see," said Peter. "You think there is no danger? You advise me to brazen the dina giacca out, to swagger it off?"

"I don't understand, Signorino," said Marietta.

"To understand is to forgive," said he; "and yet you can't trifle with English servants like this, though they ought to understand, ought n't they? In any case, I 'll be guided by your judgment. I'll wear my dina giacca, but I'll wear it with an air! I 'll confer upon it the dignity of a court-suit. Is that a gardener--that person working over there?"

Marietta looked in the quarter indicated by Peter's nod.

"Yes, Signorino; ha is the same gardener who works here three days every week," she answered.

"Is he, really? He looks like a pirate," Peter murmured.

"Like a pirate? Luigi?" she exclaimed.

"Yes," affirmed her master. "He wears green corduroy trousers, and a red belt, and a blue shirt. That is the pirate uniform. He has a swarthy skin, and a piercing eye, and hair as black as the Jolly Roger. Those are the marks by which you recognise a pirate, even when in mufti. I believe you said his name is Luigi?"

"Yes, Signorino--Luigi Maroni. We call him Gigi."

"Is Gigi versatile?" asked Peter.

"Versatile--?" puzzled Marietta. But then, risking her own interpretation of the recondite word, "Oh, no, Signorino. He is of the country."

"Ah, he's of the country, is he? So much the better. Then he will know the way to Castel Ventirose?"

"But naturally, Signorino." Marietta nodded.

"And do you think, for once in a way, though not versatile, he could be prevailed upon to divert his faculties from the work of a gardener to that of a messenger?"

"A messenger, Signorino?" Marietta wrinkled up her brow.

"Ang--an unofficial postman. Do you think he could be induced to carry a letter for me to the castle?"

"But certainly, Signorino. He is here to obey the Signorino's orders."

Marietta shrugged her shoulders, and waved her hands.

"Then tell him, please, to go and put the necessary touches to his toilet," said Peter. "Meanwhile I'll indite the letter."

When his letter was indited, he found the piratical-looking Gigi in attendance, and he gave it to him, with instructions.

Thereupon Gigi (with a smile of sympathetic intelligence, inimitably Italian) put the letter in his hat, put his hat upon his head, and started briskly off--but not in the proper direction: not in the direction of the road, which led to the village, and across the bridge, and then round upon itself to the gates of the park. He started briskly off towards Peter's own toolhouse, a low red-tiled pavilion, opposite the door of Marietta's kitchen.

Peter was on the point of calling to him, of remonstrating. Then he thought better of it. He would wait a bit, and watch.

He waited and watched; and this was what he saw.

Gigi entered the tool-house, and presently brought out a ladder, which he carried down to the riverside, and left there. Then he returned to the tool-house, and came back bearing an armful of planks, each perhaps a foot wide by five or six feet long. Now he raised his ladder to the perpendicular, and let it descend before him, so that, one extremity resting upon the nearer bank, one attained the further, and it spanned the flood. Finally he laid a plank lengthwise upon the hithermost rungs, and advanced to the end of it; then another plank; then a third: and he stood in the grounds of Ventirose.

He had improvised a bridge--a bridge that swayed upwards and downwards more or less dizzily about the middle, if you will--but an entirely practicable bridge, for all that. And he had saved himself at least a good three miles, to the castle and back, by the road.

Peter watched, and admired.

"And I asked whether he was versatile!" he muttered. "Trust an Italian for economising labour. It looks like unwarrantable invasion of friendly territory--but it's a dodge worth remembering, all the same."

He drew the d.u.c.h.essa's letter from his pocket, and read it again, and again approached it to his face, communing with that ghost of a perfume.

"Heavens! how it makes one think of chiffons," he exclaimed.

"Thursday--Thursday--help me to live till Thursday!"

XVII

But he had n't to live till Thursday--he was destined to see her not later than the next afternoon.

You know with what abruptness, with how brief a warning, storms will spring from the blue, in that land of lakes and mountains.

It was three o'clock or thereabouts; and Peter was reading in his garden; and the whole world lay basking in unmitigated sunshine.

Then, all at once, somehow, you felt a change in things: the sunshine seemed less brilliant, the shadows less solid, less sharply outlined.

Oh, it was very slight, very uncertain; you had to look twice to a.s.sure yourself that it was n't a mere fancy. It seemed as if never so thin a gauze had been drawn over the face of the sun, just faintly bedimming, without obscuring it. You could have ransacked the sky in vain to discover the smallest shred of cloud.

At the same time, the air, which had been hot all day--hot, but buoyant, but stimulant, but quick with oxygen--seemed to become thick, sluggish, suffocating, seemed to yield up its vital principle, and to fall a dead weight upon the earth. And this effect was accompanied by a sudden silence--the usual busy out-of-door country noises were suddenly suspended: the locusts stopped their singing; not a bird twittered; not a leaf rustled: the world held its breath. And if the river went on babbling, babbling, that was a very part of the silence--accented, underscored it.

Yet still you could not discern a rack of cloud anywhere in the sky--still, for a minute or two.... Then, before you knew how it had happened, the snow-summits of Monte Sfiorito were completely lapped in cloud.

And now the cloud spread with astonishing rapidity--spread and sank, cancelling the sun, shrouding the Gnisi to its waist, curling in smoky wreaths among the battlements of the Corn.o.bastone, turning the lake from sapphire to sombre steel, filling the entire valley with a strange mixture of darkness and an uncanny pallid light. Overhead it hung like a vast canopy of leaden-hued cotton-wool; at the west it had a fringe of fiery crimson, beyond which a strip of clear sky on the horizon diffused a dull metallic yellow, like tarnished bra.s.s.

Presently, in the distance, there was a low growl of thunder; in a minute, a louder, angrier growl--as if the first were a menace which had not been heeded. Then there was a violent gush of wind--cold; smelling of the forests from which it came; scattering everything before it, dust, dead leaves, the fallen petals of flowers; making the trees writhe and labour, like giants wrestling with invisible giants; making the short gra.s.s shudder; corrugating the steel surface of the lake. Then two or three big raindrops fell--and then, the deluge.

Peter climbed up to his observatory--a square four-windowed turret, at the top of the house--thence to watch the storm and exult in it. Really it was splendid--to see, to hear; its immense wild force, its immense reckless fury. Rain had never rained so hard, he thought. Already, the lake, the mountain slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were totally blotted out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even the neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own garden, were barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog. The big drops pelted the river like bullets, sending up splashes bigger than themselves.

And the tiled roof just above his head resounded with a continual loud crepitation, as if a mult.i.tude of iron-shod elves were dancing on it.