When I reached my own apartments at the hotel I felt worn out and fagged. I resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day. While giving my orders to Vincenzo a thought occurred to me. I went to a cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer. In it lay a strong leather case. I lifted this, and bade Vincenzo unstrap and open it. He did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly ornamented pistols was displayed to his view.
"Good weapons?" I remarked, in a casual manner.
My vallet took each one out of the case, and examined them both critically.
"They need cleaning, eccellenza."
"Good!" I said, briefly. "Then clean them and put them in good order. I may require to use them."
The imperturbable Vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to leave the room.
"Stay!"
He turned. I looked at him steadily.
"I believe you are a faithful fellow, Vincenzo," I said.
He met my glance frankly.
"The day may come," I went on, quietly, "when I shall perhaps put your fidelity to the proof."
The dark Tuscan eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed brightly and then grew humid.
"Eccellenza, you have only to command! I was a soldier once--I know what duty means. But there is a better service--gratitude. I am your poor servant, but you have won my heart. I would give my life for you should you desire it!"
He paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through his mask of impassibility, bowed again and would have left me, but that I called him back and held out my hand.
"Shake hands, amico" I said, simply.
He caught it with an astonished yet pleased look--and stooping, kissed it before I could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of my presence with an entire oblivion of his usual dignity. Left alone, I considered this behavior of his with half-pained surprise. This poor fellow loved me it was evident--why, I knew not. I had done no more for him than any other master might have done for a good servant. I had often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet I had "won his heart"--so he said. Why should he care for me? why should my poor old butler Giacoma cherish me so devotedly in his memory; why should my very dog still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my wife and my friend, had so gladly forsaken me, and were so eager to forget me! Perhaps fidelity was not the fashion now among educated persons? Perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the bas-peuple--to the vulgar--and to animals? Progress might have attained this result--no doubt it had.