THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP CARD
Three days later, in Milan, at five o'clock in the morning, Professor
Gilardoni, muffled up to the eyes, issued from the Albergo degli Angeli,
passed in front of the cathedral, turned into the dark street called dei
Rastrelli behind a line of horses led by postilions, and entered the
booking office of the public coaches. The little courtyard where the
post-office now stands, was already full of people, of horses, of
lanterns. To the hermit of Valsolda all these voices of postilions and
of guards, this stamping of horses and jingling of bells, seemed like a
real pandemonium.
The horses were being harnessed to two coaches, four to each. The
Professor was going to Lodi because he had learned that the Marchesa was
visiting a friend there, and the Lodi coach would start at half-past
five.
It was intensely cold, and the poor Professor wandered anxiously around
the ungainly carriage, stamping his feet to warm them, until presently
another traveller said jestingly to him: "Cool, is it not?" "Just a
little fresh! Just a little fresh!" The horses were harnessed at last,
an employe called the passengers by name, and the worthy Beniamino
disappeared within the bowels of the huge vehicle, together with two
priests, an old woman servant, an elderly gentleman with an enormous
wart on his face, and a fashionably dressed young man. The doors were
closed, an order was given, the bells jingled, the huge vehicle shook
itself, the priests, the old woman, and the gentleman with the wart
crossed themselves, the horses' sixteen hoofs rattled under the portal,
the massive wheels rumbled through it, and then all this noise grew
fainter as the coach turned to the right, towards Porta Romana.
Now the wheels revolved almost noiselessly, and the travellers heard
only the irregular beat of the sixteen hoofs on the stones. The
Professor watched the passing of dark houses, the pale glow of
infrequent street lamps, the flashing light from some small
coffee-house, or a vanishing sentry-box.
It seemed to him that the presence of these soldiers lent something
threatening, something so formidable to the silence of the great city,
that the very walls of the houses were black with hatred. When the coach
entered the Corso di Porta Romana, so filled with fog that he could
hardly see out of the window, he closed his eyes, and gave himself up to
the pleasure of thinking of and conversing with the things and persons
that filled his heart.
It was no longer the passenger with the wart who sat opposite him, but
Donna Ester, all enveloped in a great black cape, a broad-brimmed hat
upon her head. She was looking at him fixedly, and her lovely eyes were
saying: "Well done! You are acting nobly! Showing a great heart. I would
not have believed it! I admire you! To me you are no longer old and
ugly. Courage!" At this exhortation to have courage, he was seized with
fear, for the image of the Marchesa rose before him, and the dull rumble
of the wheels became the old lady's nasal voice, saying: "Won't you sit
down? What can I do for you?"
At this point the coach stopped and the Professor opened his eyes. Porta
Romana. An official opened the door and asked for the passports and
having collected them, carried them away. Returning again in about five
minutes, he restored their passports to all the passengers save the
fashionably dressed young man. To him he said sharply: "Come with me."
The young man turned pale, but got out in silence and did not return. In
a moment or two the door was closed, and a rough voice cried:
"_Avanti!_" The gentleman with the wart placed his travelling-bag on the
seat that was now vacant, but none of the other passengers gave any sign
of having noticed what had happened. Only when the four horses had once
more begun to trot did Gilardoni ask the priest, his neighbour, if he
knew the young man's name, but the priest's only answer was a cross
grunt, as he turned two terrified and suspicious eyes upon the
Professor. Beniamino now looked towards the other priest, who
immediately drew a rosary from his pocket and, having made the sign of
the cross, began to pray. Once more the Professor closed his eyes, and
the image of the unknown young man was lost for ever in the mist, like
the few and phantom-like trees, the poplars and willows, slipping past
on either side of the road.
"How shall I begin?" thought Gilardoni. Ever since Christmas Eve he had
done nothing but imagine and debate within himself how he should present
himself before the Marchesa, how introduce the subject, how explain it,
and what terms he should offer. This was the only point on which he was
clear. If the Marchesa would make her grandson a liberal allowance, he
would destroy the documents. He had not brought them with him, but he
had copies of them. Their effect would surely be tremendous, but how
should he begin? Not one of the many preambles he had thought of
satisfied him. Even now with closed eyes and fancy hard at work, he was
considering the question, starting from the only known factor: "Take a
seat. What can I do for you?" But invariably his answer would appear to
him either too obsequious or too daring, too remote from the subject or
too close to it, and he would once more go back to the beginning. "What
can I do for you?"
The pale light of dawn, dreary, sad, and sleepy, invaded the coach. Now
that the time for the interview was approaching, a thousand doubts, a
thousand fresh uncertainties upset all the Professor's plans. The very
base of his calculations suddenly collapsed. What if the Marchesa should
not say either, "Take a seat," or "What can I do for you?" What if she
should receive him in some other embarrassing manner? And what if she
should not receive him at all! Merciful heavens! What then? The sudden
ringing of the sixteen hoofs on a paved way set his heart to beating.
However, it was not yet the streets of Lodi, but those of Melegnano.
He reached Lodi at about nine o'clock, and got out at the Albergo del
Sole, where they gave him a room without fire or sun. Not daring to
brave either the fog in the street or the fumes in the kitchen, he
decided to go to bed, and putting on his night-cap, which was acquainted
with all his woes, he waited, a camphor cigarette between his lips, for
the coming of noon and a happy thought.
* * * * *
At one o'clock he ascended the steps of the Palazzo X. with the wise
determination to carefully forget all the speeches he had prepared, and
to trust to the inspiration of the moment. A footman in a white tie
ushered him into a large, dark apartment, with a brick floor, walls hung
with yellow silk, and a stuccoed ceiling, and having bowed respectfully,
went away. A few antique, white and gilt armchairs covered with red
damask stood in a semicircle before the fireplace, where three or four
enormous logs were burning slowly, behind the brass fender. The air was
laden with the mixed odours of ancient mould, ancient cakes, ancient
stuffs, ancient leather, and decrepit ideas, the whole forming a subtle
essence of old age enough to shrivel the very soul.
The servant reappeared and announced, to Gilardoni's utter confusion,
the imminent arrival of the Signora Marchesa. He waited and waited, and
at last a great door, ornamented with gilding, swung open, a little
moving bell tinkled, Friend trotted in, sniffing the floor to right and
left, and was followed by a great bell-shaped mass of black silk, under
a small cupola of white lace, while, between two blue ribbons, appeared
the black wig, the marble brow, the lifeless eyes of the Marchesa
herself.
"What miracle! The Professor in Lodi!" said the drowsy voice, while the
small dog sniffed at the Professor's boots. Gilardoni made a low bow,
and the lady, who might have been the jar containing the essence of old
age, seated herself on one of the chairs near the fire, and installed
her lap-dog on another; after which she motioned to Gilardoni to be
seated also. "I suppose," said she, "that you have some relative at the
convent of the 'Dame Inglese'?"
"No," the Professor replied, "I have not."
Sometimes the Marchesa was facetious in her own way. "Then," said she,
"you probably came for a supply of _mascherponi_."[M]
"Not for that either, Signora Marchesa. I came on business."
"Indeed. You are unfortunate in the weather. I believe it is raining
now."
At this unexpected digression the Professor came near losing his
bearings. "Yes," said he, feeling that he was growing foolish, like the
scholar whose examination is taking a bad turn. "It is drizzling."
His voice, his expression, could not fail to reveal his inward
embarrassment, to show the Marchesa that he had come to tell her
something important. However, she carefully avoided helping him to
unburden himself, and continued to talk of the weather, the cold, the
dampness, a catarrh from which Friend was suffering, while the dog
punctuated his mistress's recital with frequent sneezes.
The drowsy voice had a calm, almost jocose inflection, a sort of bland
benevolence, and the Professor was bathed in cold sweat at the bare
thought of checking this mellifluous flow, and offering in exchange the
bitter pill he had in his pocket. He might have taken advantage of a
pause to pour forth his preamble, but he was not equal to it, and it was
the Marchesa who seized the opportunity to close the interview.
"I thank you very much for your visit," said she, "and now I am going to
dismiss you, for you have your business to attend to, and, to tell the
truth, I also have an engagement."
Now or never he must take the leap.
"As a matter of fact," Gilardoni began, greatly agitated, "I came to
Lodi to speak with you, Signora Marchesa."
"I should never have been able to guess that," said the lady frigidly.
The Professor was carried forward by the impetus of his daring.
"It is a most urgent matter," said he, "and I must beg----"
"If it is a matter of business, you must apply to my agent in Brescia."
"Pardon me, Signora Marchesa, it is really a most important affair. No
one knows and no one must know that I have come to see you. I will tell
you at once that it concerns your grandson."
The Marchesa rose, and the dog that had been crouching in the armchair
also sprang up, barking in Gilardoni's direction.
"Do not speak to me of that person who no longer exists for me," the old
lady said solemnly. "Come, Friend!"
"No, Signora Marchesa," the Professor protested. "You cannot possibly
imagine what I have to tell you."
"I do not in the least care to know. I do not wish to hear anything.
Good-day to you!"
Whereupon the inflexible old lady moved towards the door.
"Marchesa!" Beniamino called after her, while Friend, who had jumped
from the chair, barked furiously around his legs. "It concerns your
husband's will!"
This time the Marchesa could not but stop. She did not, however, turn
round.
"This will cannot be pleasing to you," Gilardoni added rapidly. "But I
have no intention of publishing it. I entreat you to listen to me,
Marchesa."
She turned round. Her impenetrable face betrayed a certain emotion in
the quivering of the nostrils. Nor were the shoulders entirely at rest.
"What tales have you to tell?" she retorted. "Do you think it fitting to
thus inconsiderately mention my poor Franco to me? How dare you meddle
with my family affairs?"
"Excuse me," the Professor repeated, searching in his pocket. "If I do
not meddle some one else may do so even less considerately. Kindly
examine these documents. These----"
"Keep your scribblings to yourself," the Marchesa interrupted, seeing
him draw some papers from his pocket.
"These are copies I have made----"
"I tell you to keep them, to take them away!"
The Marchesa rang the bell, and once more started to leave the room.
Gilardoni, quivering with excitement, hearing the approaching steps of
a servant, and seeing her about to open the door, threw his documents
upon one of the armchairs, saying hastily, in an undertone: "I will
leave them here. Let no one see them. I am staying at the Sole, and will
return to-morrow. Examine the papers, and think over them carefully!"
And before the servant arrived he had rushed out at the same door by
which he had entered, had seized his heavy cape, and fled downstairs.
The Marchesa dismissed the footman, and stood listening for a few
moments. Then she retraced her steps, took up the papers, and went to
her room, locking her door behind her. Having put on her spectacles she
took her stand near the window, and began to read. Her brow was clouded
and her hands trembled.
* * * * *
The Professor was preparing to go to bed in his icy room at the Sole
when two police-agents came with a summons for him to appear at once at
the police-station.
He felt some secret misgivings, but did not lose his head, and went
quietly away with the two men. At the station a little impudent
Commissary asked him why he had come to Lodi, and upon being informed
that he had come on private business shrugged his shoulders in
contemptuous incredulity. What private business did Signor Gilardoni
pretend to have in Lodi? With whom? The Professor mentioned the
Marchesa. "There are no Maironis at Lodi," the Commissary exclaimed,
and when his victim protested he speedily interrupted him. "_Basta!_
That will do! That will do!" The police knew for a certainty that
Professor Gilardoni, although he was an Imperial and Royal pensioner,
was not a loyal Austrian; that he had friends at Lugano, and that he had
come to Lodi for political ends.
"You are better informed than I am," Gilardoni exclaimed, restraining
his wrath with difficulty.
"Silence!" the Commissary commanded. "You must not think the Imperial
and Royal government is afraid of you. You are free to go, but you must
leave Lodi within two hours."
At this point Franco would have immediately perceived from whence the
blow came, but the philosopher did not understand.
"I came to Lodi on most urgent business, which is not yet finished,"
said he. "On most important, private business. How can I leave in two
hours?"
"By carriage. If you are still in Lodi at the end of two hours I shall
have you arrested."
"My health does not permit me to travel at night in December," the
victim urged.
"Very well, then I will have you arrested at once!"
The poor philosopher took up his hat in silence, and went out.
An hour later he started for Milan in a closed calash, his feet
embedded in straw, a rug over his legs, a great muffler round his neck,
reflecting that this had been a most successful expedition, and
swallowing momently to see if his throat were sore. He passed a horrible
night, indeed, but the Marchesa herself did not rest on a bed of roses.
FOOTNOTE:
[M] _Mascherponi_: A sort of common cheese made in Lodi. [_Translator's
note._]