Franco went down the hill very, very slowly, absorbed in the world of things within him, so crowded with thoughts and with new sensations. Stopping every now and then to contemplate the grey road and the small dark fields, he would touch the leaves of a grape-vine or the stones of a low wall, in order to feel the reality of the external world, to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Not until he had reached the Contrada dei Mal'ari in Casarico, and was standing before the little door of Gilardoni's tiny house, did he recall Mamma Teresa's dark words concerning the secret Gilardoni had imparted to her, and he wondered what this mystery could be, which must not be revealed to Luisa. To tell the truth the mother's advice had not satisfied him entirely. "How could I ever hide anything from my wife?" he thought as he knocked at the door.

Professor Beniamino Gilardoni, son of "Carlin de DÀas," had been educated at the expense of old Don Franco Maironi, Marchesa Orsola's husband, an eccentric man, capricious and violent, but at the same time, very generous. When Carlin died it became apparent that Maironi's generosity had not been necessary. Beniamino inherited quite a little hoard, and this maddened Don Franco, who held him responsible for the paternal hypocrisy, turned his back upon him, and would have nothing more to do with him for the short time he survived his agent. The young man chose the career of teacher, was professor of Latin at the gymnasium of Cremona, and of philosophy at the lyceum of Udine. Of a delicate constitution, apprehensive of physical suffering, and extremely misanthropical, he resigned his professorship in 1842, and came to Valsolda to enjoy the modest fortune his father had left him. Dasio, his native village, perched just below the dolomitic rocks of the Arabione, was too high up and inconvenient for him. He sold his possessions there, purchased the olive-grove of Sedorgg above Casarico, and a small villa on the edge of the lake, in Casarico itself. It was so small as to be almost a toy villa, and from its shape he called it the "Greek II or Pi" in imitation of the "Digamma" of Ugo Foscolo. From the Contrada dei Mal'ari a short passage led to the little courtyard flanked by a tiny portico, open on the lake-side and surrounded by tall oleanders. It overlooked six miles of water, green, grey or blue, according to the hour, as far as Monte S. Salvatore there in the distance, stooping, under the burden of its melancholy hump, towards the humble hills of Carona beneath it. On the east of the little house there was a kitchen-garden, fabulously large for that part of the world, the dimensions of which Engineer Ribera was wont to define by means of the following surveyor's description: "Large field called il Campone, measuring seven tavole." Now seven tavole correspond to twenty or twenty-two square metres! The Professor cultivated it with the aid of his little servant Giuseppe, called Pinella, and of a small collection of French treatises. He sent to France for the seeds of the most highly esteemed qualities of vegetables, which sometimes came up in shameless disregard of their certificates of baptism, and indeed of any honestly baptised family. It would then happen that philosopher and servant, stooping over the beds, their hands on their knees, would raise their eyes from these mocking sprouts, and gaze at each other, the philosopher honestly disappointed, the servant hypocritically so. In one corner of the garden, in a little stable constructed according to the most approved principles, dwelt a small Swiss cow, which had been purchased after three months of diligent study, and had turned out as delicate and fleshless as the master himself, who—in spite of the Swiss cow and four Paduan hens—often found it impossible to make himself a cup of custard in his own house. In the wall supporting the garden on the lake-side, against whose base the breva drove the swelling waves, he had made some openings in which, following Franco Maironi's advice, he had planted many American aloes, many roses and some caper-bushes, thus binding together the substantial contents of his kitchen-garden, as he was wont to say, with poetic elegance of form. And for the love of the poetic, he had left a small corner of his kitchen-garden uncultivated. The tallest of reeds had sprung up there, and in front of these reeds the Professor had erected a sort of belvedere, a lofty, wooden platform, very rustic and primitive, where, in pleasant weather, he passed many happy hours with the mystic books he loved, enjoying the coolness of the breva, and the murmuring of reeds and waves. At a distance the colour of the platform could not be distinguished from that of the reeds, and the Professor looked as if he were seated on air, book in hand, like any magician. In the little salon he kept the small collection of works on kitchen-gardening, the mystic books, the treatises on necromancy, and gnosticism. The writings on hallucinations and dreams he kept in a tiny study adjoining his bedroom, a sort of ship's cabin, into which lake and sky seemed to pour through the window.

After the death of old Maironi the Professor had once more taken to visiting the family, but the Marchesa did not please him particularly, and her son Don Alessandro, Franco's father, pleased him still less. So he ended by going there only once a year. When the lad Franco entered the lyceum his grandmother—his father had been dead some time—begged Gilardoni to give him some lessons during the Autumn. Master and pupil resembled each other in their easy enthusiasms, in their fits of violent but fleeting passion, and both were ardent patriots. When the necessity for lessons no longer existed they continued to meet as friends, though the Professor was some twenty years older than Franco. Gilardoni admired his pupil's genius, but Franco, on the other hand, held the half-Christian, half-rationalist philosophy of his master, and his mystical tendencies, in small esteem. He laughed at the other's passion for books and theories on horticulture and landscape gardening, a passion which was entirely devoid of all common sense. But nevertheless, he loved him sincerely for his goodness, his candour, his ardent soul. Franco had been the Professor's confidant at the time of his unfortunate passion for Signora Rigey, and later, Franco, in his turn, confided in the Professor. Gilardoni was much affected by the news, and told Franco that, his heart being still full to overflowing of that unchanging devotion, he should feel as if he were, in a way, becoming Franco's father, even though Signora Teresa herself would have none of him. Franco showed little appreciation of this metaphysical paternity. This passion for Signora Rigey seemed to him simply an aberration, and he was more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the Professor's head was not worth much, but that his heart was of gold. So he knocked at the door, and Beniamino himself came to open it, bearing a little oil lamp. "Well done," said he. "I was beginning to think you were not coming, after all."

Gilardoni was in his dressing-gown and slippers, with a sort of white turban on his head, and he exhaled a strong odour of camphor. He looked like a Turk, like Gilardoni Bey, but the thin, sallow face which smiled beneath the turban had nothing Turkish about it. Encircled by a short, reddish beard, pompously embellished in the middle by a fine, big nose, red and pimply, the face was lighted up by two beautiful blue eyes, still very youthful, and full of simple kindness and poetry.

As soon as Franco had closed the door behind him his friend whispered: "Is it done?" "It is done," Franco answered. The other embraced him and kissed him in silence. Then he took him up stairs to the little study. On the way he explained that, secundum Raspail, he had applied a compress of some sedative water to his head, for he was threatened with a headache. He was an apostle of Raspail, and had converted Franco—who often suffered from inflammatory sore throats—from leeches to camphor cigarettes.

In the little study there was another very close and long embrace. "So much! So much! So much!" Gilardoni exclaimed, meaning a world of things.

Poor Gilardoni, his eyes were glistening. He himself had longed in vain for a happiness similar to his friend's! Franco understood and, much embarrassed, did not know what to say to him, and a silence so significant followed that Gilardoni could not stand it, and set about lighting a little fire to heat some coffee he had prepared. Franco offered to do this for him, and the Professor accepted, pleading his headache, and began unrolling his turban before a basin of the sedative water. "Well," said he, controlling his emotion by an effort of his will, "tell me all about it." Franco told him everything, from his grandmother's dinner-party, to the wedding ceremony in the church at Castello, except of course, his private talk with Signora Teresa. Professor Beniamino, meanwhile, had replaced his turban, and now summoned up all his courage. "And——" said he, substituting a sort of low groan for the beloved name, "how is she?" Upon learning of the hallucination he exclaimed: "A letter? She thought she saw a letter? But what letter?" This Franco did not know. A hissing on the fire interrupted the conversation; the coffee was boiling hard and bubbling over.

Gilardoni also resembled his young friend in that his heart might be read from his face. The young friend who was, however, a far cleverer and quicker reader of faces than he, at once perceived that he had thought of some special letter, and inquired, while the coffee was settling, if he could explain this hallucination. The Professor hastened to say "no," but no sooner had he uttered that "no" than he weakened it by adding several other negatives, mingled with inarticulate grumblings: "Ah, no!—no indeed!—I cannot say—certainly not!" Franco did not insist, and another extremely significant silence ensued. When he had taken his coffee, with many involuntary signs of uneasiness, the Professor promptly proposed that they go to bed. Franco, who must leave before daybreak, preferred not to go to bed, but wished his friend to do so, and, after an infinite number of protests and ceremonies, after hesitating on the very threshold, his basin of sedative water in his hand, the Professor suddenly faced about, and throwing a "good-night" over his shoulder, disappeared.

When he was alone Franco put out the lamp and stretched himself in an easy-chair with the good intention of going to sleep, seeking sleep in some indifferent thought if he could possibly fix his mind on such a thought. Not five minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door and immediately the Professor rushed in, without a light, and exclaiming: "Well, here I am again!" "What is the matter?" Franco inquired. "I am sorry I put out the light." At the same moment he felt the arms of the worthy Beniamino about his neck, his beard brushed Franco's face, and he smelt the camphor and heard the voice. "Dear, dear, Don Franco! I have an enormous load on my heart! I did not intend to speak now; I wanted to leave you in peace, but I cannot, I cannot!"

"But speak! Calm yourself, calm yourself!" said Franco, gently freeing himself from that embrace.

Gilardoni let him go, and pressed his hands to his forehead, groaning: "Oh, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool I am! I might have left him alone; I might have waited until to-morrow or the next day. But now it is done! It is done!"

He seized Franco's hand. "I tell you I had begun to undress when a sort of giddiness came over me, and then it was all up with me. I must needs put on the dressing-gown again, and rush in here without a light, like a lunatic. In my haste I even tipped over the basin of sedative water."

"Shall we light the lamp?" Franco asked.

"No, no, no, we had better talk in the dark, better talk in the dark! See, I am going way over there!" And he sat down at his writing-desk, to escape the faint glimmer of light which fell through the window. Then he began. He always spoke in a nervous and disorderly fashion, and it may easily be imagined how he spoke now, in his present state of agitation.

"Shall I begin? Goodness knows what you will say, dear Don Franco! These are all useless words, but what would you have—alas! patience—! Well, I will begin—but where shall I begin? Oh, Lord! just see what a fool I am, not even knowing where to begin! Ah, that hallucination! Yes, I told you a lie just now; I can easily guess the origin of that hallucination. It has to do with a letter; a letter I showed Signora Teresa two years ago, a letter from Don Franco, your grandfather. Well, now let us begin at the beginning.

"During his last days my poor father spoke to me of a letter from Don Franco which I should find in the strong-box, where all the important papers were kept. He told me to read it, to preserve it carefully, and, when the time came, to act in accordance with the dictates of conscience. 'But' said he, 'it is almost certain there will be nothing to be done.' My poor father passed away. I searched the strong-box for the letter, but did not find it. I hunted the whole house over, but in vain. What could I do? I contented myself with reflecting that there was nothing to be done, and thought no more about the matter. A fool, was I not? A real idiot! Say so freely, I deserve it. I have said so to myself so many times! But let us continue. Do you know how your grandfather's estate was settled? Do you know how the affairs of your house were arranged? You will forgive me for speaking to you of these matters, will you not?"

"I know my grandfather died without a will, and that I have nothing," Franco replied. "But let us pass that over, and proceed."

To Franco it was truly a painful subject. At old Maironi's death no will had been found. In perfect love and harmony, the widow and the son, Don Alessandro, had divided the estate equally between them. In order to secure this arrangement the son had made a very large grant to his mother, declaring that he was only carrying out the paternal wishes, which had not found a means of expression. This depraved young man, a spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in the toils of usurers at the time of his father's death. In the seven years he survived him he managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny to his only son, Franco, who found himself reduced to some twenty thousand svanziche, the fortune of his mother who had died in giving him birth.

"Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. "Three years ago, three years ago, I say, I received a letter from you. I remember it was the second of November, all Souls' Day. Curious circumstance, mysterious circumstance! Very well. That night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream. I dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that I had never thought of it again. I dreamt I was hunting for it, and that I found it in an old box I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It said there was a great treasure in the cellar of Casa Maironi at Cressogno and that that treasure was to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, convinced that this had been a prophetic dream. I got up, and went to look in the box. I found nothing; but two days later, being about to sell certain lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out an old deed of purchase, which my father kept in the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, a letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and saw: Nobile Franco Maironi. I read the letter. It was the one in question! Thus you see, the dream...."

"Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and what did this letter say?"

The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit long, ran it in among the live coals in the little fireplace, and lit the lamp.

"I have it here," he said with a great, despairing sigh. "Read it."

He took from his pocket and handed to Franco a small yellowish letter, without an envelope, and still showing traces of the little red wafer. The yellow-black lines of writing inside showed through here and there, almost in relief.

Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read aloud as follows:

"Now here is the will," said Gilardoni dolefully, handing Franco another yellow document, "but don't read that aloud."

The document read as follows:

Franco read—and, half dazed and without a word, passed the sheet of paper back to the Professor. He was shaken, but felt vaguely that he must control himself, that he must restrain his own agitation, collect his thoughts, and strive to get a clear view of this matter and of himself.

"What do you say to that?" the Professor exclaimed.

At this point Gilardoni's intense excitement reached a climax.

"Why did I not speak before, eh?" he continued. "The thing is that I can't possibly give a clear, precise and positive reason for not having done so. Those papers were a horror to me! If I myself and my own father and mother had been involved in such a question, I would rather have let a million slip than ask for it with those documents in my hand. There! I have been a fool again, to have said that! Just forget those last words, for in your place ... it is a different thing. I was speaking for myself. Good Lord, of course I was speaking for myself! Well, I thought—see what an ass I was—I thought your grandmother just doted on you, and that your grandfather's property would go to you anyway. And with that idea...! After a while I consulted Signora Teresa, and showed her the letter and the will. She said I should have informed you at once, as soon as I had made the discovery, but that she could not give me any advice because now her daughter was, in a way, an interested party. Besides, she said.... But that is of no consequence. In short I saw the will was a horror to her also. Anyway, I was convinced your grandmother would end by accepting this marriage, and I did not speak. Tonight you come and tell me the Marchesa has used threats. Fancy that! Now you understand that I could not wait, that I could not keep these documents a moment longer. There—they are yours—take them!"

Franco, absorbed in his own thoughts, heard only these last words. "No," said he, "I will not take them. I know myself too well. With them in my possession I might be led into doing something rash, or into acting prematurely. You keep them for the present." Gilardoni would not hear of keeping them, and drove Franco into one of his fits of impatience. There was indeed nothing so irritating to his nerves as the inconclusive outpourings of kind-hearted but brainless persons. Gilardoni's opposition angered him, and he gave him to understand that this wish to rid himself of the documents at all costs, was selfishness pure and simple, and that those who have blundered must bear the consequences. The words he uttered amounted to this, but the angry and harsh expression of his face said much more. Gilardoni, whose face was crimson, shuddered at the accusation of selfishness, but controlled himself and putting on a grim frown in his turn, hastily pocketed the documents, repeated a string of "well, well, well, wells," and abruptly left the room. To appease his own conscience Franco at once set to work trying to convince himself that Signor Beniamino was entirely in the wrong. He had done wrong in not having given him the documents much sooner, and now he was doing wrong in taking offence. As he was quite sure he should make his peace with the inconclusive philosopher, he thought no more about him, put out the lamp, and, returning to his easy-chair, became once more engrossed in his previous meditations.

Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could not with dignity make use of that will, which, both in form and in substance was dishonouring to his grandmother, arousing as it did, when the letter was considered, a suspicion of criminal suppression. The will also reflected little honour upon his father. No, never. He must tell the professor to burn both documents.

"Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph over you!" thought Franco, "Making you a free gift of the property, and of your honour as well, without even taking the trouble to tell you of it!" Revelling in this thought Franco felt almost as if he were lifted above the earth, and he drew a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his soul illumined and soothed by a sentiment of mingled generosity and pride. With all his faith and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far from suspecting that such a sentiment was not entirely good, and that a less self-conscious magnanimity would have been more noble.

He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, more disposed to rest than he had been before, thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he had heard, as one who has been on the verge of embarking upon some perilous speculation, and looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities from which he has escaped forever. Old memories were also beginning to stir in the depths of his soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant had told concerning the riches of the house of Maironi, which, she said, had been stolen from the poor. He was a child then, and the woman had not hesitated to speak in his presence. But the child had received a deep impression, and this impression had been re-awakened in his early boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had confided to him, with an air of great secrecy and solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit which had been unjustly won against the Ospedale Maggiore of Milan.

"So, through me," thought Franco, "everything has gone back to the devil."

It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he lighted the lamp once more, and consulted his watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would be impossible for him to rest. The moment which would re-unite him to Luisa was too near at hand, his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and a half more! He looked at his watch every two minutes; it seemed as if the tedious time would never pass. He took a book, but could not read. He opened the window; the air was soft, the silence profound, the lake was bright over towards S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps it would be his fate to live there in Uncle Piero's house. Gazing absently at that luminous spot, he began to imagine what the future would be, and ever-changing phantoms rose before him. At about half-past four he heard a bell ring on the lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a message from his master to the effect that if he wished to make the ascent of the Boglia it was time to start. The master had a severe headache, and could neither rise nor receive him. Franco searched on the writing-table for a sheet of paper, and wrote:

"Parce mihi, domine, quia brixiensis sum."

He went out, Pinella accompanying him with the light as far as the dark arcade, where the road to Castello begins. Then he disappeared.

The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half-past six, and ordered the maid to bring her chocolate as usual. She swallowed more than half of it before asking with the utmost composure, at what hour Don Franco had returned.

"He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa."

The old woman must have received an inward shock, but not a muscle of her face twitched. She placed her lips on the edge of her cup of chocolate, looked at the maid, and said calmly:

"Bring me one of those little biscuits we had yesterday."

Towards eight o'clock the maid came back to say that Don Franco had returned, but only to go directly to his room for his passport, coming down again immediately, and he had then ordered the footman to find a boatman who would take him to Lugano. The Marchesa said never a word, but later in the day she sent word to her confidant Pasotti that she was expecting him. Pasotti took in the situation at a glance, and remained with her more than half an hour. The lady was determined to find out where and how her grandson had spent the night. Pasotti had already heard some rumours, which he now repeated, concerning a nocturnal visit of Don Franco's to Casa Rigey; but more reliable and precise information was desired. The cunning Tartufo, by nature as curious as a hound, that goes about following every scent, poking his nose into every hole, and rubbing it against every pair of trowsers, promised to furnish the Marchesa with such information in the course of a day or two, and then took himself off, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a pleasant chase.