Artois spoke quietly, almost carelessly, as if merely to say something,
but without special intention.
"Maddalena was here in the town with her relations. And they say
Salvatore is at Messina. This morning Maddalena went home. She was
crying. Every one saw her crying for the signore."
"That is very natural if she knew him."
"Oh yes, signore, she knew him. Why, they were all at the fair of San
Felice together only the day before."
"Then, of course, she would cry."
"Si, signore."
The man put his hand on the door.
"If the signora wishes to see me at any time I am here," said Artois.
"But, of course, I shall not disturb her. But if I can do anything to
help her--about the funeral, for instance--"
"The signora is giving all the directions now. The poor signore is to be
buried in the high part of the Campo Santo by the wall. Those who are not
Catholics are buried there, and the poor signore was not a Catholic. What
a pity!"
"Thank you, Ferdinando."
The man went out slowly, as if he were reluctant to stop the
conversation.
So the villagers were beginning to gossip already! Ferdinando had not
said so, but Artois knew his Sicily well enough to read the silences that
had made significant his words. Maddalena had been crying for the
signore. Everybody had seen Maddalena crying for the signore. That was
enough. By this time the village would be in a ferment, every woman at
her door talking it over with her next-door neighbor, every man in the
Piazza, or in one of the wine-shops.
Maddalena--a Sicilian girl--weeping, and Delarey's body found among the
rocks at night in a lonely place close to her cottage. Artois divined
something of the truth and hated himself the more. The blood, the
Sicilian blood in Delarey, had called to him in the sunshine when he was
left alone, and he had, no doubt, obeyed the call. How far had he gone?
How strongly had he been governed? Probably Artois would never know. Long
ago he had prophesied, vaguely perhaps, still he had prophesied. And now
had he not engineered perhaps the fulfilment of his own prophecy?
But at all costs Hermione must be spared any knowledge of that
fulfilment.
He longed to go to her and to guard her door against the Sicilians. But
surely in such a moment they would not speak to her of any suspicions, of
any certainties, even if they had them. She would surely be the last
person to hear anything, unless--he thought of the "authorities"--of the
Pretore, the Cancelliere, the Maresciallo, and suddenly it occurred to
him to ride down to the sea. If the inquiry had yielded any terrible
result he might do something to protect Hermione. If not, he might be
able to prepare her. She must not receive any coarse shock from these
strangers in the midst of her agony.