Diana would have taken her brother away from Turin if she could, but
there was a danger that the mere suggestion might revive the fixed idea
that had driven him mad. His illusions had not the absolutely permanent
character which is the most hopeless. For instance, on the evening of
the very day when he had called his sister by his wife's name, he had
known Diana perfectly well, and had sat for an hour talking about old
times with her. Whether, at such moments, he had any recollection of
recent occurrences, would be hard to say; and the doctor advised for the
present that he should have perfect quiet and should be allowed to amuse
himself and to be amused in any way which seemed best. In the course of
a day or two the doctor saw him, coming on pretence of seeing Madame de
Charleroi. He felt now, he said, from Marcantonio's manner, that he
would recover before long, though his memory concerning the
circumstances of the time when he was insane would probably be very
uncertain.
But Diana felt relieved at this and devoted her time to her brother from
morning till night, reading to him, driving with him, or talking to him
as the case might be. She could do nothing more for the present. Turin
is a pleasant city enough, the weather was not excessively hot, and the
hotel was large and comfortable. In the course of time it would be
possible to move Carantoni and take him to Paris, but at present any
sudden change of place or surroundings was to be deprecated.
A week passed in this way, and Diana grew pale with the constant strain
of anxiety, and the great dark rings circled her grey eyes. But she bore
bravely up, and rose each day with strength to do what lay before her.
She wrote to her husband, and he offered at once to come and help her to
take care of Marcantonio, but she would not let him come, fearing the
effect of a new face,--even that of an old friend like Charleroi. She
received all the letters that came to her brother, and was surprised
that there were no communications from the detectives he had employed.
The fact was that Marcantonio had given a separate address to them, and
as they discovered nothing, after the manner of most detectives, they
only systematically telegraphed that they had confidence of being on the
track. The telegrams were addressed to another hotel, and were dropped
into the box for unclaimed letters and were never heard of again. Diana
knew that business communications would be harmless in Marcantonio's
present state, and when any came she let him have them. He would read
them over and often discuss with her the information they contained, and
at last he would let her answer them, saying it was very good of her to
save him so much trouble.
All these letters came from Rome, being forwarded by the steward who
lived at the Palazzo Carantoni and managed the business of the
household. Others came, re-directed over the original address, from
friends in different parts of the country, and these Diana carefully put
aside unopened, fearing always that some passing reference or message to
Leonora might disturb him and bring on a fresh outbreak. She could
always distinguish the business letters, because they were either
directed in the handwriting of the steward, or they bore the outward and
visible printed address of the lawyer, farmer, or merchant, from whom
they came.
In the week they had spent in Turin there had been already twenty or
thirty communications of various kinds. Poor Marcantonio never knew that
his sister sorted the mail for him. It was brought to him by the
confidential servant, and he always took it and went to his room with an
air of great importance to "get through his business," as he expressed
it. He was evidently proud of doing it, showing that unaccountable
vanity in small things which characterises so many lunatics. Indeed, he
had always been proud of his attention to details, and now it became a
sort of passion, though he was never able to carry out his intentions,
and always left the unfinished work to Diana.
On the fourth of September Julius Batiscombe's letter, directed to
Marcantonio in Rome, had come back to Turin. Julius had marked it "very
urgent," and the steward had looked at it, had thought Batiscombe's
handwriting indistinct, and to secure greater certainty had put it into
another envelope and directed it in his own business-like way. The
consequence was that it was mistaken for a common business letter, and
handed to Marcantonio with the rest.
It seemed to be the last blow that an evil fate could strike at the
unhappy man, and it was a terrible one in itself and in its
consequences.
He sat at his table by the window, opening one letter after another, and
looking over the contents with a pleased expression, a little vacant
perhaps, but not altogether without intelligence. There was a lacuna in
his mind, and sometimes he was conscious of being confused by faces and
things about him, but he was still capable of understanding the
questions about his estates, and farms, and buildings, though he always
seemed to lack the energy to write the directions with his own hand.
He turned over the sheets and folded each one neatly and put it back
into its particular envelope. Then he opened the one from the steward,
and found in it a letter directed to Rome in a strange hand.
He held it in his fingers with a puzzled look for a moment; it seemed as
though one letter had suddenly become two. Then he understood and
smiled a little sadly at his own weakness of comprehension, and broke
the seal.
The effect was not instantaneous. He read it over again, and a third
time, his face still vacant, and he put his hand to his head trying and
striving with all his might to remember. The week of insanity had done
its work and Diana need not have feared that he could be easily recalled
to an understanding of the past. But it was not wholly gone yet; he
would try to remember. He rose to his feet, and perhaps the slight
physical effort helped to stir his dull mind.
Suddenly he trembled violently from head to foot, and his colour changed
from the natural complexion it had taken of late to a deadly pallor. For
an instant his whole nature seemed to be convulsed, he reeled to and fro
and caught himself by the heavy frame of his bedstead, staring wildly
about, and fell backwards across the pillows, clutching the counterpane
to right and left of him with his two hands, his face distorted and
horrible to see.
It only lasted for a moment, and he regained his feet, stood still for a
few seconds, and passed his hands across his eyes and seemed at once to
recover his faculties. He took Batiscombe's letter again and read it
over, as though fixing the few words and the address in his mind. The
vacant expression of ten minutes ago had changed to a look of
supernatural intelligence and cunning. He put the letter in his pocket
and sat down at the table. He opened some of the envelopes again and
scattered the papers about, eying the effect rather critically. He then
took his dressing-case, opened it, and removed one small tray, and then
a second. In the bottom of the box was a revolver, bright and ready,
with all its appurtenances, a few cartridges lying loose in their little
compartment. The weapon was loaded, but he carefully opened it and
examined each chamber, turning it round slowly by the light. It was not
a large pistol, and when he was sure that it was in order, he put it
carefully into the inside pocket of his coat, and surveyed the effect in
the glass. No one would have suspected that he was armed.
He saw that his hat was ready in its place, and he rang the bell and sat
down at his table once more, holding a letter in his hand, as though
reading. The confidential servant appeared.
"Will you please to bring me a lemonade?" said Marcantonio, with
perfectly natural intonation. The man bowed and retired to execute the
order. His master seemed better than usual, he thought; the appearance
of the papers and Carantoni's bland smile had completely deceived him.
As soon as he was alone he took his hat, felt that he had his purse in
his pocket, and opened the door to the sitting-room. Diana was not
there, for she generally wrote her own letters until Marcantonio
appeared with his correspondence, asking her to answer it for him. The
servant was gone to get the lemonade and Marcantonio slipped quietly
out on tiptoe.
Once upon the main staircase of the hotel he ran nimbly down, humming a
little tune in a jaunty fashion, to show everybody that he was at his
ease. Of course the people in the house had no idea that he was insane.
It had been Diana's chiefest care to conceal the fact from every one;
and Marcantonio walked calmly past the porter's lodge into the street,
and took a cab. It was nearly midday and the thoroughfares were less
crowded than in the morning and evening; the cab flew rapidly over the
smooth pavement to the station.
There are many trains to Cuneo in the summer season, and before very
long Carantoni found himself in a smoking-carriage with three or four
men, all reading the papers and smoking long, black cigars with straws
in them. He lit a cigarette, bought a paper just as the guard was
closing the doors, and he rolled out of the station, looking just like
anybody else. He pretended to read, and no one noticed him.
When the servant returned with the lemonade and found that Marcantonio
was gone, he did not suspect what was the matter, but put the glass on
the table and went back to the antechamber and waited at his post. He
waited a few minutes and then knocked at Diana's door, and asked if the
signore were with her.
"No," said Diana quickly, and came out into the sitting-room in her
loose morning gown. "Where is he? Is he not in his room? He never comes
into mine."
"He is not there," said the man, who by this time was thoroughly
frightened. "He sent me for a lemonade. He looked better than usual, and
was sitting just there, at his table, reading his letters. When I came
back he was gone. He seemed entirely himself, better than I have ever
seen him."
Diana was frightened and puzzled. After all it was quite possible that
Marcantonio had taken it into his head to go out by himself. He had
never suggested such a thing yet, and always seemed unwilling to cross
the threshold alone; but since he was so much better that day, he might
have gone out. It was possible. She would not have believed that without
some immediate cause he could have fallen back into a remembrance of his
troubles; for she had studied his moods very carefully, and was
convinced that, as the doctor said, there would always be a blank in his
mind now, destroying the memory of those three or four days. She glanced
hastily over the papers on the table. They were all of the usual sort,
for Marcantonio had taken Batiscombe's letter with him.
Nevertheless, she was very much frightened, and was angry with the
confidential servant for not having sent some one else to get the
lemonade. She lost no time in dispatching him to make inquiries. He was
really an active man, and understood his business thoroughly, but
Marcantonio's manner had completely deceived him, and he had
conscientiously thought his charge perfectly safe. Maniacs have more
than once deceived their keepers, and their doctors, and Marcantonio
seemed to have fallen into a very different sort of madness--rather
foolish and gentle than cunning and dangerous.
The servant soon discovered that Marcantonio had passed the porter's
lodge and had taken a cab, not many minutes earlier; but no one had
heard the order he gave to the driver. There were no more carriages on
the stand. The man lost no time but ran down the street till he found
one, and was driven to the station, as he was, bareheaded and clothed in
a dress-coat and a white tie, after the manner of hotel servants in the
morning. His experience told him that crazy people generally made for
the railway when they escaped. But he was too late. A train had just
left--he made anxious inquiries of every one, describing Marcantonio's
clothes and jewelry, which he knew by heart. No one had noticed him. He
might not have come to the station after all.
But a dirty little boy elbowed his way through the crowd of railway
porters and guards that soon surrounded the man, and the boy listened.
"Had that signore a great ring on his finger, with a black stone in it,
and a red one on each side?" he asked.
"Yes," cried the confidential servant. "You have seen him?" He seized
the small boy by the arm and held him fast.
"Yes," said the little fellow; "but you have no need to pinch me like
that. I sold him a paper, and he gave me a silver half-franc, and I
noticed his fingers and his ring."
The servant released him.
Some one else had noticed the ring, which was very large and
brilliant,--a great sapphire with a ruby on each side of it. The
individual remembered hearing the gentleman ask for the train to Cuneo.
The confidential servant rushed back to the hotel, after ascertaining
that there would not be another train for two hours.
He told Diana what he had learned, and she listened attentively. She was
pale and quiet, and she did not reproach the man again. It was of no use
now. She had dressed herself, and she sent for a cab; and then she also
was driven to the station, the man accompanying her. She did not speak
except to give her orders.
She went at once to the station-master, an extremely civil individual
with a great deal of silver lace.
"Can you give me a special train to Cuneo at once?" she asked.
The station-master was in despair, he said. There was only a single
track, and it would be impossible to arrange the line at such short
notice. He bowed, and looked grave, and put everything in the station
at the disposal of the magnificent lady who ordered special trains as
other people order cabs. But he could do nothing. Diana hesitated.
Something must be done at once.
"My brother," she said, "took the last train to Cuneo, and I desire to
stop him. He--he is insane."
It was a hard thing to have to tell a stranger, a railway official, and
Diana was whiter than death as she said it. She would rather have put a
knife into her heart.
The station-master was graver and more polite than ever. He could
telegraph to all the stations to have the passengers watched as they
descended. Would she give him a description,--the name, perhaps?
It had to be done. She gave the details, and the telegram was sent.
Meanwhile she sat in the station-master's private office, to wait for
more than an hour until the next train should be ready.
The consequence of all this was that when Marcantonio finally reached
his destination, he was politely asked, in company with the other
passengers, whether he had seen or heard of an insane gentleman called
the Marchese Carantoni. But his newly-found cunning did not desert him.
He shrugged his shoulders, and said he did not know the gentleman. He
himself looked so quiet and dignified, that no one could have suspected
him of being the person, and the short description telegraphed would
have answered to hundreds of Italians all over the country. He had, of
course, expected to be pursued, as lunatics often do, and he was
prepared to baffle every attempt. His quiet look and frank smile were a
perfect passport. He even inquired of a porter at the station how he
could best reach the Certosa di Pesio; and the man told him it was an
hour's drive or more, and got him a little carriage for the journey, and
received a few sous for his pains.
Marcantonio leaned back against the moth-eaten cushions and smoked a
cigarette and looked at the scenery. He hummed a little tune
occasionally, and, when the dirty driver was not looking, he put his
hand into his breast pocket, and felt that his pistol was in its place,
and then the cunning smile passed over his features.
He had managed it all so well,--there could be no mistake about it. He
chuckled as he thought how Batiscombe would expect to receive the visit
of a third party, and would thus be suddenly brought face to face with
the principal. He thought he could anticipate just how Batiscombe would
look, and he revelled for a while in the contemplation of his hatred. He
had forgotten nothing now, except that he had ever forgotten his
vengeance for a moment.
On and on he rolled in his rattling little cab. Through a long and
gradually-ascending valley, thickly clothed with chestnut-trees of
mighty growth. By the roadside ran a stream, that gradually became a
torrent as the inclination of its course grew steeper, and the road
wound up towards the source. Here and there the water fell over a
natural weir of dark-brown rock, forming a deep pool below, where the
trout lurked in the shadow. Again the thick woods receded a little on
each side, and the bed of the stream, now shallow from the summer heat,
grew broad and stony; and further on there was a bit of grassy bank
overhung with many trees, and the small river swept smoothly round.
Suddenly the carriage drew up before an old stone gateway that seemed to
start out of the foliage, and there was a noise as of a deep fall of
water, at once wild and smooth. Marcantonio had reached the Carthusian
monastery at last. His purpose was almost accomplished.
It is a strange building in a marvellous situation. Those old monks
knew where to live, as they have always known in all ages and
countries,--from the priests of Egypt to the monks of Buddha, from the
Benedictines of Subiaco to the holy men of ancient Mexico, they have all
reared spacious dwellings in chosen sites, where the body might live in
peace and the soul be raised, by contemplating the beauties of the
earth, to the imagination of the beauties of heaven. They were wise old
men; some of them were good, and some bad, as happens in all communities
in the world; but they were men who did the earth good in their day, and
found out the places that have often become cities in our times,
whereby hundreds of thousands of souls have profited by their choice.
The Certosa di Pesio, where Julius and Leonora had taken up their abode
for a time, is turned into an establishment for cold-water cures. There
are generally some fifty or sixty people there from Turin and the
neighbourhood who take the baths, or not, as they please, and lead a
pleasant life for a few months in the great cloistered courts, and the
bright gardens, and out in the endless chestnut woods. A cool breath of
the Alps blows down the valley, and the rush of the water, dammed up by
a strong weir of ancient masonry, and continually pouring down with a
steady, musical roar, pervades all the cool rooms and the sounding halls
and passages. It is an ideal place for the summer, almost unknown to
foreigners. It is no wonder that Julius had thought it the very spot for
Leonora to rest in until the heat was over. A little way from the
buildings, up the valley, a dilapidated summer-house overhangs the
stream. Sitting there you can see the whole wonderful outline of the
convent buildings, crowned with chimneys which the old monk-architects
seem to have delighted in greatly, giving them a variety of strange and
grotesque shapes such as I never saw anywhere else. Julius and Leonora
used often to come to the old summer-house in the afternoon, with their
books, which were seldom called into requisition, and they would sit
side by side for hours, till the evening sun warmed the colours of the
pine-trees on the heights to a green-gold, and reddened the far-off
snows of Monte Rosa with the last, loving touch of his departing light.
An obsequious individual came forward from the archway as Marcantonio
drove up to the gate. Marcantonio eyed him, and perceived that he was a
functionary of the pension.
"Is there an English gentleman here?" he asked,--"a certain Signor
Giulio Batiscombe?" His voice was very calm, and had a certain suavity
in its tones; he smiled, too, as he asked the question.
"Si, signore," answered the man, bowing and gesticulating toward the
building. "Certainly. A handsome signore, with his wife--both Inglesi.
They arrived on the thirty-first of last month--five days. Will the
signore do the favour to come in? I will inquire whether the English
gentleman is at home."
The slightest shade passed over Marcantonio's face at the mention of the
wife in the case. But the man would not have noticed it. Marcantonio
felt sure he had not betrayed himself.
"I will wait here," said he, "while you inquire."
The man disappeared, and Marcantonio was alone. He looked up at the
windows in the grey walls, and saw no one. Nevertheless, at any moment
Batiscombe might appear--from the house or from the woods--he might be
taking a walk. It seemed a very long time to wait.
He put his hand into his breast pocket. The stock of the revolver just
curved over the edge of the cloth inside his coat; he could get at it
without trouble. He longed to take it out and examine it; to see whether
it were still in perfect order; and he peeped in when the driver was not
looking, just to catch a sight of the lock and the bright barrel. Then
he smiled to himself, and hummed a tune, assuming an air of quiet
indifference--acting all the time, as only madmen can act, as though he
were on the stage before a great audience. It was only for the benefit
of the driver of his little carriage, a rough fellow, who had not shaved
for a week, and wore a dirty linen jacket, his hands black and his eyes
red with the wine of the night before--that was the audience; but
Marcantonio acted his part with as much care as though he were in the
presence of Batiscombe himself. There must not be the smallest chance of
an interruption to his plan.
At last the man returned, bowing with renewed zeal. He came forward with
one hand extended, as though to help Marcantonio to alight.
"The English signore is in the garden," he said. Marcantonio smiled more
sweetly than ever and got out of his conveyance.
"You can wait," he said to the driver, and the latter touched his
battered straw hat.
Marcantonio followed the man through a great court, where there were
trees, into a long, tiled passage that seemed to run through the house,
and, on the other side, he emerged into a garden, thick with
laurel-trees and geraniums. The man led the way. Marcantonio's hand
crept stealthily into his breast pocket underneath his coat, and raised
the lock of the revolver very slowly. The man in front did not hear the
small, sharp click.
"Where is he?" asked Marcantonio, very gently, still smiling an
unnaturally sweet smile. The servant had stopped and was looking about.
"I was told they were here," said he; "but they must be in the
summer-house outside."
Again he led the way to a small door in the garden wall. It was open.
"There they are, signore," said he, pointing with his finger and
standing aside to let Marcantonio pass.
He looked, and saw two people sitting in the dilapidated old bower above
the water, not twenty yards from where he stood.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon. Diana had taken the train at two,
and could not reach Cuneo till six.