Martel laughed at this.
"Impossible! She is a woman, she has eyes, she will see you as I see
you. More than that, I have told her that she must love you."
"Then that does settle it! You have hung the crepe on our future
intimacy, for good and all. She will instruct your cook to put a spider
in my dumpling or to do away with me by some characteristic Sicilian
method."
Martel seemed puzzled by the Americanism of this speech, but Norvin
merely smiled and changed to Italian.
"Do you really love her?" he asked.
"Of course! Since I was a boy so high I have known we would marry. She
adores me, she is young, she is beautiful, she is--rich!"
"In Heaven's name don't use that tone in speaking of her wealth. You
make me doubt you."
"No, no!" The Count smiled. "It would be the same if she were a peasant
girl. We shall be so happy--oh, there is no expressing how happy we
intend being."
"I've no doubt. And that makes it quite certain to end our comradeship."
"You croak like a raven!" declared the Sicilian. "What has soured you?"
"Nothing. I am a wise young man, that's all. You see, happiness is
all-sufficient; it needs nothing to complete itself. It is a wall
beyond which the owner does not care to wander, so, when you are quite
happy with the new Countess, you will forget your friends of unmarried
days."
"Would you then have me unhappily married?"
"By no means. I am full of regrets at losing you, nothing more."
"It is plain, then, that you also must marry. Is there no admirable
American lady?"
"Any quantity of them, but I don't care much for women except in an
impersonal sort of way, or perhaps I don't attract them. I might enjoy
falling in love if it were not such a tedious process."
"It is not necessarily tedious. One may love with the suddenness of an
explosion. I have done so, many times."
"I know you have, but you are a Sicilian; we go about such things in a
dignified and respectable manner. Love is a serious matter with us. We
don't explode."
"Yes. When you love, you marry; and you marry in the same way you buy a
farm. But we have blood in our veins and lime in our bones. I have
loved many women to distraction; there is only one whom I would marry."
Ricardo entered at the moment, and the Count arose with a word of
apology to his guest. He spoke earnestly with his overseer, but, as
they were separated from him by the full width of the great room, Blake
overheard no more than a word now and then. They were speaking in the
Sicilian dialect, moreover, which was unfamiliar to him, yet he caught
the mention of Ippolito, one of the men who had met him at the station,
also of an orange-grove, and the word "Mafioso." Then he heard Martel
say:
"The shells for the new rifle--Ippolito is a bad shot--take plenty."
When Ricardo had gone and the Count had returned to his seat, Norvin
fancied he detected once more that grave look he had surprised in his
friend's countenance upon their arrival at the castello.
"What were you telling Ricardo about rifles and cartridges?" he
inquired.
"Eh? It was nothing. We are forced to guard our oranges; there are
thieves about. I have been too long away from Martinello."
Later, as Norvin Blake composed himself to sleep he wondered idly if
Martel had told him the whole truth. He recalled again the faint, grave
lines that had gathered about the Count's eyes, where there had never
been aught but wrinkles of merriment, and he recalled also that word
"Mafioso." It conjured memories of certain tales he had heard of
Sicilian outlawry and brigandage, and of that evil, shadowy society of
"Friends" which he understood dominated this island. There was a story
about the old Count's death also, but Martel had never told him much.
Norvin tried to remember what it was, but sleep was heavy upon him and
he soon gave up.