Days passed. He could not go to Ventirose--or, anyhow, he thought he could not. He reverted to his old habit of living in his garden, haunting the riverside, keeping watchful, covetous eyes turned towards the castle. The river bubbled and babbled; the sun shone strong and clear; his fountain tinkled; his birds flew about their affairs; his flowers breathed forth their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands westward laughed, the snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour of the calendar except their native white. All was as it had ever been--but oh, the difference to him. A week passed. He caught no glimpse of the Duchessa. Yet he took no steps to get his boxes packed.
XXVI
And then Marietta fell ill.
One morning, when she came into his room, to bring his tea, and to open the Venetian blinds that shaded his windows, she failed to salute him with her customary brisk “Buon giorno, Signorino.”
Noticing which, and wondering, he, from his pillow, called out, “Buon' giorno, Marietta.”
“Buon' giorno, Signorino,” she returned but in a whisper.
“What's the matter? Is there cause for secrecy?” Peter asked.
“I have a cold, Signorino,” she whispered, pointing to her chest. “I cannot speak.”
The Venetian blinds were up by this time; the room was full of sun. He looked at her. Something in her face alarmed him. It seemed drawn and set, it seemed flushed.
“Come here,” he said, with a certain peremptoriness. “Give me your hand.”
She wiped her brown old hand backwards and forwards across her apron; then gave it to him.
It was hot and dry.
“Your cold is feverish,” he said. “You must go to bed, and stay there till the fever has passed.”
“I cannot go to bed, Signorino,” she replied.
“Can't you? Have you tried?” asked he.
“No, Signorino,” she admitted.
“Well, you never can tell whether you can do a thing or not, until you try,” said he. “Try to go to bed; and if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”
“I cannot go to bed. Who would do the Signorino's work?” was her whispered objection.
“Hang the Signorino's work. The Signorino's work will do itself. Have you never observed that if you conscientiously neglect to do your work, it somehow manages to get done without you? You have a feverish cold; you must keep out of draughts; and the only place where you can be sure of keeping out of draughts, is bed. Go to bed at once.”
She left the room.
But when Peter came downstairs, half an hour later, he heard her moving in her kitchen.
“Marietta!” he cried, entering that apartment with the mien of Nemesis. “I thought I told you to go to bed.”
Marietta cowered a little, and looked sheepish, as one surprised in the flagrant fact of misdemeanour.
“Yes, Signorino,” she whispered.
“Well--? Do you call this bed?” he demanded.
“No, Signorino,” she acknowledged.
“Do you wish to oblige me to put you to bed?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Signorino,” she protested, horror in her whisper.
“Then go to bed directly. If you delay any longer, I shall accuse you of wilful insubordination.”
“Bene, Signorino,” reluctantly consented Marietta.
Peter strolled into his garden. Gigi, the gardener, was working there.
“The very man I most desired to meet,” said Peter, and beckoned to him. “Is there a doctor in the village?” he enquired, when Gigi had approached.
“Yes, Signorino. The Syndic is a doctor--Dr. Carretaji.”
“Good,” said Peter. “Will you go to the village, please, and ask Dr. Carretaji if he can make it convenient to call here to-day? Marietta is not well.”
“Yes, Signorino.”
“And stop a bit,” said Peter. “Are there such things as women in the village?'
“Ah, mache, Signorino! But many, many,” answered Gigi, rolling his dark eyes sympathetically, and waving his hands.
“I need but one,” said Peter. “A woman to come and do Marietta's work for a day or two--cook, and clean up, and that sort of thing. Do you think you could procure me such a woman?”
“There is my wife, Signorino,” suggested Gigi. “If she would content the Signorino?”
“Oh? I was n't aware that you were married. A hundred felicitations. Yes, your wife, by all means. Ask her to come and rule as Marietta's vicereine.”
Gigi started for the village.
Peter went into the house, and knocked at Marietta's bed-room door. He found her in bed, with her rosary in her hands. If she could not work, she would not waste her time. In Marietta's simple scheme of life, work and prayer, prayer and work, stood, no doubt, as alternative and complementary duties.
“But you are not half warmly enough covered up,” said Peter.
He fetched his travelling-rug, and spread it over her. Then he went to the kitchen, where she had left a fire burning, and filled a bottle with hot water.
“Put this at your feet,” he said, returning to Marietta.
“Oh, I cannot allow the Signorino to wait on me like this,” the old woman mustered voice to murmur.
“The Signorino likes it--it affords him healthful exercise,” Peter assured her.
Dr. Carretaji came about noon, a fat middleaged man, with a fringe of black hair round an ivory-yellow scalp, a massive watch-chain (adorned by the inevitable pointed bit of coral), and podgy, hairy hands. But he seemed kind and honest, and he seemed to know his business.
“She has a catarrh of the larynx, with, I am afraid, a beginning of bronchitis,” was his verdict.
“Is there any danger?” Peter asked.
“Not the slightest. She must remain in bed, and take frequent nourishment. Hot milk, and now and then beef-tea. I will send some medicine. But the great things are nourishment and warmth. I will call again to-morrow.”
Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.
Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.
But next day she was manifestly worse.
“Yes--bronchitis, as I feared,” said the doctor. “Danger? No--none, if properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a sister.”
“Thank you very much. I hope you will,” said Peter.
And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent. But sometimes she had to send for Peter.
“She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you,” the sister said.
Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of mastery.
“Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You must not disobey the Signorino.”
And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter holding the cup to her lips.
On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, “She imagines that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good if he would come and talk with her.”
And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta, confirmed the sister's opinion.
“She is no worse--she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments.”
So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.
“What shall we do now?” Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.
“There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose,” said the sister.
“Could I ask him to come?” Peter doubted.
“Certainly,” said the sister. “In a case of illness, the nearest priest will always gladly come.”
So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.
And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.
The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so sunny-bright--it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent anthem.
“Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come in his place. Your man told me of your need,” the Cardinal explained.
“I don't know how to thank your Eminence,” Peter murmured, and conducted him to Marietta's room.
Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the garden.
The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and waited.