“Does she—does she go to-night?” I faltered.
“O dear, yes—goes everywhere with him—never lets him out of her sight.
You’ll see her—la bella Duchessa!”
With this my informant laughed, and rubbed his hands again, and went back
to his office.
The day went by, I scarcely know how, except that my whole soul was in a
tumult of rage and bitterness. I returned from my afternoon’s work about
7.25, and at 10.30 I was once again at the station. I had examined the
engine; given instructions to the Fochista, or stoker, about the fire;
seen to the supply of oil; and got all in readiness, when, just as I was
about to compare my watch with the clock in the ticket-office, a hand was
laid upon my arm, and a voice in my ear said:
“Are you the engine-driver who is going on with this special train?”
I had never seen the speaker before. He was a small, dark man, muffled
up about the throat, with blue glasses, a large black beard, and his hat
drawn low upon his eyes.
“You are a poor man, I suppose,” he said, in a quick, eager whisper,
“and, like other poor men, would not object to be better off. Would you
like to earn a couple of thousand florins?”
“In what way?”
“Hush! You are to stop at Padua, are you not, and to go on again at
Ponte di Brenta?”