Vittoria — Complete - George Meredith

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meaningless chatter, until Captain Gambier had joined Mrs. Sedley; and at him, for she had known him likewise, she could not forbear looking up. He was speaking to Mrs. Sedley, but caught the look, and bent his head for a clearer view of the features under the broad straw hat. Mrs. Sedley commanded him imperiously to say on.

      “Have you no letter from Wilfrid? Has the mountain tired you? Has Wilfrid failed to send his sister one word? Surely Mr. Pericles will have made known our exact route to him? And his uncle, General Pierson, could—I am certain he did—exert his influence to procure him leave for a single week to meet the dearest member of his family.”

      Captain Gambier gathered his wits to give serviceable response to the kindled lady, and letting his eyes fall from time to time on the broad straw hat, made answer—“Lieutenant Pierson, or, in other words, Wilfrid Pole—”

      The lady stamped her foot and flushed.

      “You know, Augustus, I detest that name.”

      “Pardon me a thousandfold. I had forgotten.”

      “What has happened to you?”

      Captain Gambier accused the heat.

      “I found a letter from Wilfrid at the hotel. He is apparently kept on constant service between Milan, and Verona, and Venice. His quarters are at Verona. He informs me that he is to be married in the Spring; that is, if all continues quiet; married in the Spring. He seems to fancy that there may be disturbances; not of a serious kind, of course. He will meet you in Milan. He has never been permitted to remain at Milan longer than a couple of days at a stretch. Pericles has told him that she is in Florence. Pericles has told me that Miss Belloni has removed to Florence.”

      “Say it a third time,” the lady indulgently remarked.

      “I do not believe that she has gone.”

      “I dare say not.”

      “She has changed her name, you know.”

      “Oh, dear, yes; she has done something fantastic, naturally! For my part, I should have thought her own good enough.”

      “Emilia Alessandra Belloni is good enough, certainly,” said Captain Gambier.

      The shading straw rim had shaken once during the colloquy. It was now a fixed defence.

      “What is her new name?” Mrs. Sedley inquired.

      “That I cannot tell. Wilfrid merely mentions that he has not seen her.”

      “I,” said Mrs. Sedley, “when I reach Milan, shall not trust to Mr. Pericles, but shall write to the Conservatorio; for if she is going to be a great cantatrice, really, it will be agreeable to renew acquaintance with her. Nor will it do any mischief to Wilfrid, now that he is engaged. Are you very deeply attached to straw hats? They are sweet in a landscape.”

      Mrs. Sedley threw him a challenge from her blue eyes; but his reply to it was that of an unskilled youth, who reads a lady by the letters of her speech:—“One minute. I will be with you instantly. I want to have a look down on the lake. I suppose this is one of the most splendid views in Italy. Half a minute!”

      Captain Gambier smiled brilliantly; and the lady, perceiving that polished shield, checked the shot of indignation on her astonished features, and laid it by. But the astonishment lingered there, like the lines of a slackened bow. She beheld her ideal of an English gentleman place himself before these recumbent foreign people, and turn to talk across them, with a pertinacious pursuit of the face under the bent straw hat. Nor was it singular to her that one of them at last should rise and protest against the continuation of the impertinence.

      Carlo Ammiani, in fact, had opened matters with a scrupulously-courteous bow.

      “Monsieur is perhaps unaware that he obscures the outlook?”

      “Totally, monsieur,” said Captain Gambier, and stood fast.

      “Will monsieur do me the favour to take three steps either to the right or to the left?”

      “Pardon, monsieur, but the request is put almost in the form of an order.”

      “Simply if it should prove inefficacious in the form of a request.”

      “What, may I ask, monsieur, is your immediate object?”

      “To entreat you to behave with civility.”

      “I am at a loss, monsieur, to perceive any offence.”

      “Permit me to say, it is lamentable you do not know when you insult a lady.”

      “I have insulted a lady?” Captain Gambier looked profoundly incredulous. “Oh! then you will not take exception to my assuming the privilege to apologize to her in person?”

      Ammiani arrested him as he was about to pass.

      “Stay, monsieur; you determine to be impudent, I perceive; you shall not be obtrusive.”

      Vittoria had tremblingly taken old Agostino's hand, and had risen to her feet. Still keeping her face hidden, she walked down the slope, followed at an interval by her servant, and curiously watched by the English officer, who said to himself, “Well, I suppose I was mistaken,” and consequently discovered that he was in a hobble.

      A short duologue in their best stilted French ensued between him and Ammiani. It was pitched too high in a foreign tongue for Captain Gambier to descend from it, as he would fain have done, to ask the lady's name. They exchanged cards and formal salutes, and parted.

      The dignified altercation had been witnessed by the main body of the tourists. Captain Gambier told them that he had merely interchanged amicable commonplaces with the Frenchman—“or Italian,” he added carelessly, reading the card in his hand. “I thought she might be somebody whom we knew,” he said to Mrs. Sedley.

      “Not the shadow of a likeness to her,” the lady returned.

      She had another opinion when later a scrap of paper bearing one pencilled line on it was handed round. A damsel of the party had picked it up near the spot where, as she remarked, “the foreigners had been sitting.” It said:—

      “Let none who look for safety go to Milan.”

       Table of Contents

      A week following the day of meetings on the Motterone, Luigi the spy was in Milan, making his way across the Piazza de' Mercanti. He entered a narrow court, one of those which were anciently built upon the Oriental principle of giving shade at the small cost of excluding common air. It was dusky noon there through the hours of light, and thrice night when darkness fell. The atmosphere, during the sun's short passage overhead, hung with a glittering heaviness, like the twinkling iron-dust in a subterranean smithy. On the lower window of one of the houses there was a board, telling men that Barto Rizzo made and mended shoes, and requesting people who wished to see him to make much noise at the door, for he was hard of hearing. It speedily became known in the court that a visitor desired to see Barto Rizzo. The noise produced by Luigi was like that of a fanatical beater of the tomtom; he knocked and banged and danced against the door, crying out for his passing amusement an adaptation of a popular ballad:—“Oh, Barto, Barto! my boot is sadly worn: The toe is seen that should be veiled from sight. The toe that should be veiled like an Eastern maid: like a sultan's daughter: Shocking! shocking! One of a company of ten that were living a secluded life in chaste privacy! Oh, Barto, Barto! must I charge it to thy despicable leather or to my incessant pilgrimages? One fair toe! I fear presently the corruption of the remaining nine: Then, alas! what do I go on? How shall I come to a perfumed end, who walk on ten indecent toes? Well may the delicate gentlemen sneer at me and scorn me: As for the angelic Lady who deigns to look so low, I may say of her that her graciousness clothes what she looks

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