"It is Major Gaydon."
Gaydon had to make the best of the business. He bowed.
"Mr. Whittington, I think."
"Sir," said Whittington, politely, "I am honoured by your memory. For
myself, I never forget a face though I see it but for a moment between
the light and the dark, but I do not expect the like from my
acquaintances. We did meet, I believe, in Paris? You are of Dillon's
regiment?"
"And on leave in Rome," said Gaydon, a trifle hastily.
"On leave?" said Whittington, idly. "Well, so far as towns go, Rome is
as good as another, though, to tell the truth, I find them all quite
unendurable. Would I were on leave! but I am pinned here, a watchman
with a lantern. I do but lack a rattle, though, to be sure, I could not
spring it. We are secret to-night, major. Do you know what house this
is?"
"No," replied Gaydon. "But I am waited for and will bid you good-night."
He had a thought that the Chevalier, since he would be secret, had
chosen his watchman rather ill. He had no wish to pry, and so was for
returning to his lodging; but that careless, imprudent man, Whittington,
would not lose a companion so easily. He caught Gaydon by the arm.
"Well, it is the house of Maria Vittoria, Mademoiselle de Caprara, the
heiress of Bologna, who has only this evening come to Rome. And so no
later than this evening I am playing link-boy, appointed by letters
patent, one might say. But what will you? Youth is youth, whether in a
ploughboy or a--But my tongue needs a gag. Another word, and I had said
too much. Well, since you will be going, good-night. We shall meet, no
doubt, in a certain house that overlooks the Tiber."
"Hardly," said Gaydon, "since I leave Rome to-morrow."
"Indeed? You leave Rome to-morrow?" said Whittington. "I would I were as
fortunate," and he jerked his thumb dolefully towards the Caprara
Palace. Gaydon hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not he
should ask Whittington to be silent upon their meeting. But he
determined the man was too incautious in his speech. If he begged him
not to mention Gaydon's presence in Rome, he would remember it the more
surely, and if nothing was said he might forget it. Gaydon wished him
good-night and went back to his lodging, walking rather moodily.
Whittington looked after him and chuckled.
Meanwhile, in a room of the house two people sat,--one the slight,
graceful man who had accompanied Whittington and whom Gaydon had
correctly guessed to be his King, the other, Maria Vittoria de Caprara.
The Chevalier de St. George was speaking awkwardly with a voice which
broke. Maria listened with a face set and drawn. She was a girl both in
features and complexion of a remarkable purity. Of colour, but for her
red lips, she had none. Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor
which her hair made yet more pale. Her eyes matched her hair, and were
so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them.
She was a poet's simile for night.