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hunting the county of Oxford. "I have done much hunting since I have been in Italy," I said ruefully, "I have been as often quarry as huntsman. At present I am hunting for my——." But there I stopped. Wife I could not say—mistress I would not. Sir John saved me the trouble. He was a man of the world. "Young blood!" he cried. "I envy you that. At your age, my dear sir, that too was my game." He took snuff, then said in an undertone, "I am not too old but I can feel for you, and not so young neither that I shall pretend more ignorance of your troubles than you could believe me to have. For reasons of your own, you chose not to seek my good offices when you were last in Florence, and it was not for me to thrust myself upon you. There was a lady, I believe—pooh, man, never blush for that; there is always a lady at your happy age. Well, I can give you news. That lady is still here in Florence—a charming creature, Mr. Strelley! Upon my soul, if I were younger by a decade—tut, tut! what am I saying?" What was he saying, indeed! He was reminding me of one I desired extremely to forget; he was diverting my mind from another whom I must by all means remember. Honestly, I did not wish to see Donna Aurelia— but Sir John must have out his news. He told me that Donna Aurelia and her husband were established in Florence. Count Giraldi, said Sir John, had used his great authority with the Sovereign to obtain a fine position for the professor. Dr. Lanfranchi had been made a Judge of the Court of Cassation, and had been in residence some six months or more. Fine as this position was, however, it was nothing, said Sir John, to the position of the judge's lady. "She's a leader of the mode, I can assure you," said he, "and any little difficulty you may have had in that quarter, you may be sure, will be none now. Count Giraldi will, no doubt, be enchanted to present you there. I recommend you to keep in with the count." I felt that I could not love Count Giraldi any more. I told Sir John that my duties towards Donna Aurelia and her husband were of a peculiar kind, not to be assisted or made more difficult by Count Giraldi. "There was a moment," I added, "when his Excellency could have served me—when, having played the part of an honest man, I called for the help of one who had pretended himself my friend. He failed me then, I know not why; and he might fail me now. If you will pardon me for saying so, what I now have to do in the case of this lady—if there is anything for me to do—is by no means the business of his Excellency." "I hope not, I hope not," said Sir John. "Go your own way—and count upon me, at least, in the pinch—if pinch there is to be. But remember this. Count Giraldi is the Chief Minister of this Government, and this Government is your host. Count Giraldi is therefore major-domo. Keep in with him, my dear sir, by all means, unless you desire (a) your conge, or (b) an extortionate bill for breakages and arrears. I need only mention the name of the Marchese Semifonte—no more on that head." "No more indeed," says I, very short. "But as to Count Giraldi, I can assure you that I have no quarrel with his Excellency, who (idle rumours apart) has never, to my knowledge, impugned my honour." "Why no," said Sir John, with a queer frown, "nor need he ever—so long as you clearly perceive wherein your honour lies." "I do perceive it most clearly," I replied, "and believe that I have always perceived it since that fatal night when I forgot that I had any. I am so sure of it now that I shall not hesitate for a moment. With your permission, sir, I shall set about it this very hour." "What the devil are you going to do, my dear sir?" cried the Minister. "I am going to leave Florence," I said, "so soon as ever I have done my present business." Sir John puffed out his cheeks and let his relief escape in a volley. "Poh! How you put me about," said he. "I thought you were for the count's throat. I thought—body of me, I know not what I thought. As for the doctor, you'll find him easy handling. The good man knows where his comforts are, and whence they come. Why, supposing that you had never gone into his wife's cupboard and stalked out of it again, would he at this day have been snug upon the bench, with house-room at the Villa San Giorgio?" Here was something strange. "At the Villa San Giorgio?" I echoed with astonishment. "Is Donna Giulia then——?" 112
Sir John looked sly. "Donna Giulia," he said, "was a sensible woman. She knew very well the length of her shoe. Donna Giulia has joined her husband at Naples—a Court appointment and a good house. Dr. Lanfranchi occupies the Villa San Giorgio. Now do you see how the land lies?" I frowned and squared my chin. I think that I was disturbed because I did not then see how the land lay. I suspected, however, that Sir John knew more than he chose to tell me. I rose to take leave of him. There was something about me which he noticed. "You are going to the doctor?" he said. "You will find him in court." "I am going," I said, "to the Villa San Giorgio." He showed his alarm by saying, "You may regret it; you may regret it all your life long." "I shall regret that I ever lived if I do not go," said I. As I went out Sir John threw up his hands. CHAPTER XLII. I STAND AT A CROSS-ROAD I did not go immediately to the Villa San Giorgio; it was necessary that I should be clear why I was to go there at all. How did I stand with regard to Donna Aurelia—did I love her still, or was I cured of my wound? If I loved her, to go to her now were to play the criminal; if I did not, it might be to play the fool. Because—if I did not love her, why was I going? That is easily answered. I was going because I suspected that all was not well with her. Why was Donna Giulia in retirement? Why was the villa at the disposition of the learned judge? Why was Sir John Macartney so guarded in his admissions, and why so desirous that I should not see Count Giraldi? Apart from my private grievance against that person, which, after all, was only based on surmise and the convictions of Virginia, I could see no possible reason why I should not meet him, but one. That was, that he was fallen a victim to Aurelia's charms. And to a certain extent I felt that I should be responsible for that misfortune, for if I had never loved her she had never been in Florence; and if she had never been in Florence, she had never seen this accomplished, scoffing, cynical Tuscan. I was not ashamed to confess that I still thought Aurelia the most beautiful woman in the world, the most heavenly in conversation as in person the most superb. All the old glamour was upon me still. I knew that I should be a child at her knees the moment I set eyes upon her again; I knew that I should be imparadised, longing after impossible goodness, filled with impossible joys. But I knew also that I did not desire her. She was sacred, she was so little of the earth that as well might one hope to wed a seraph, all compact of fire, as she. I set by her, in my mind's eye, that passionate Virginia—that faithful, clinging, serving mate of what I knew were my happiest days. Ah, my sweet, lovely, loving wife! Virginia's long kisses, Virginia's close arms, her beating bosom, her fury of love, the meekness, obedience, steadfastness into which it could all be changed at a mere lift of my brows—ah, nuptial love, wedded bliss, the joys of home and the hearth, English joys! Virginia meant all this and more to me. I swore to myself that without her I could not live, that to deserve her I would renounce the world, my patrimony, my country, and that not even a changed Aurelia—changed from Seraph to calling Siren—could keep me from her side. But Aurelia—Aurelia Gualandi, that delicate flower of Siena, that youngest of the angels, that fount of poesy—what of her? What had she to say to such a certainty as this of mine? In my mind's eye I saw them stand together, she and Virginia, those two beautiful girls, Virginia a head the taller, proudly erect, with arms folded over her chest, and her dark brows forming a bar across her forehead. I saw her in white bodice and green petticoat, her arms and neck bare, her feet in old slippers, her black hair loosely coiled and stuck with a silver pin. I saw her hold herself aloof and dubious, proud and coldly chaste. "Call me and I come," she seemed to say to me between her shut lips, "Call me and I follow you over the world like a dog at your heels. Send me into infamy and I go; expect me to woo you there and I will die sooner. Yours, if you will have me; nobody's, anybody's, if you will not!" In my fancy I could hear her very words, see her steady eyes, her pure and moving lips. And Aurelia—how did she stand there? I saw her too in my mind's eye; dazzlingly, provokingly, like a creature of pure light, with thrown-back head and parted lips, with jewels about her neck, as I had seen her in the theatre at Siena; and jewels also in her hair. Like a queen of beauty at a love-court, conscious of her power, loving it, proving it; she smiled, she shook her cloudy tresses, she demanded my worship as of right. "If I choose I shall call thee," she seemed to say, "and thee— and thee—and thee again, to stand behind my chair, to kneel at my feet, to be my slave. And wilt thou deny me, Francis—or thou—or thou?" 113
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THE FOOL ERRANT by MAURICE HEWLETT
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World Public Library The World Publ
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The Fool Errant Maurice Hewlett Cop
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grunted at his labours, his goaded
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CHAPTER I. MY EXORDIUM: A JUSTIFICA
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Italian soil I was, in the eyes of
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Meantime that year of new experienc
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and above all Tuscany, took sacred
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turned to her mistress, "Mistress,
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He felt my touch, and recoiled from
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"I will tell you, sir, the reason o
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things might have been; but the str
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more urgently than the present, or
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I am afflicted, as you ought to hav
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say, ha! fair enchantress, do we me
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some of which are no doubt open to
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and linen!" I laughed aloud, and fo
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and watery, he snivelled at the nos
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and my sack are no mean caterers. W
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"I say," I replied, "that I am than
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days running to Mass, I am very sur
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in your replies. Why, Heaven! the w
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spoke of me by a title of respect
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Then I knew that I had been kidnapp
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Fra Palamone, all smiles, made no d
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I laughed at her. "My child," said
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stout black-eyed woman of middle ag
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For his second day's campaign, when
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"You will be attacking the wrong ma
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won't find them any more to your li
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said, "is clement, the Holy Office
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"I think your Aurelia lost her litt
Page 65 and 66: Count Giraldi had three palaces in
Page 67 and 68: lended their forces within me; thei
Page 69 and 70: "Yes, yes," she said, "I have seen
Page 71 and 72: "Well?" I asked her. "And he said t
Page 73 and 74: silk and a hoop, and had her hair o
Page 75 and 76: "Be sure of this," I said sharply,
Page 77 and 78: "You shall join one or the other of
Page 79 and 80: child? His one desire is to get rid
Page 81 and 82: We ran up the Via Vecchietta withou
Page 83 and 84: there was but one. Was I to kill Pa
Page 85 and 86: I kissed her again, she not forbidd
Page 87 and 88: himself to doubt my gentility. I sh
Page 89 and 90: coat of Aquamorta's servant I was n
Page 91 and 92: tailor's, the perruquier's, the bar
Page 93 and 94: until—evil wind that he is—he b
Page 95 and 96: She was silent for a few minutes, t
Page 97 and 98: He was confused and, boylike, tried
Page 99 and 100: sometimes happy, sometimes acutely
Page 101 and 102: prayer and meditation, I made solem
Page 103 and 104: England imply when we speak of the
Page 105 and 106: me and bury me alive. CHAPTER XXXVI
Page 107 and 108: "Bravo," said I, "and now, Avanti!"
Page 109 and 110: Ducal Court, authorising him to use
Page 111 and 112: performing it." The good lad droppe
Page 113 and 114: ose from my knees. If I rode in the
Page 115: CHAPTER XLI. I RETURN TO FLORENCE A
Page 119 and 120: The fair Aurelia was flushed and di
Page 121 and 122: agreed, would you have gone white a
Page 123 and 124: Aurelia. I judged her attractive by
Page 125 and 126: and ran his blade through my sword
Page 127 and 128: "He did, sir," said she haughtily;
Page 129 and 130: Grand Duchy, and a well-known haunt
Page 131 and 132: eyes searched my face. "It is ours,
Page 133: The End. World Public Library Assoc
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