“That poor Conte did cut a ludicrous figure when he learned of my departure in the Prince’s presence. … After all, he is a pleasant man, and has a very rare warmth of heart. He would have given up his Ministries to follow me. … But on the other hand, during five whole years, he has not had to find fault with me for a single aberration. How many women married before the altar could say as much to their lords and masters? It must be admitted that he is not self-important, he is no pedant; he gives one no desire to be unfaithful to him; when he is with me, he seems always to be ashamed of his power. … He cut a funny figure in the presence of his lord and master; if he was in the room now, I should kiss him. … But not for anything in the world would I undertake to amuse a Minister who had lost his portfolio; that is a malady which only death can cure, and … one which kills. What a misfortune it would be to become Minister when one was young! I must write to him; it is one of the things that he ought to know officially before he quarrels with his Prince. … But I am forgetting my good servants.”
The Duchessa rang. Her women were still at work packing trunks, the carriage had drawn up under the portico, and was being loaded; all the servants who had nothing else to do were gathered round this carriage, with tears in their eyes. Cecchina, who on great occasions, had the sole right to enter the Duchessa’s room, told her all these details.
“Call them upstairs,” said the Duchessa.
A moment later she passed into the waiting-room.
“I have been promised,” she told them, “that the sentence passed on my nephew will not be signed by the Sovereign” (such is the term used in Italy), “and I am postponing my departure. We shall see whether my enemies have enough influence to alter this decision.”
After a brief silence, the servants began to shout: “Evviva la Signora Duchessa!” and to applaud furiously. The Duchessa, who had gone into the next room, reappeared like an actress taking a call, made a little curtsey, full of grace, to her people, and said to them: “My friends, I thank you.” Had she said the word, all of them at that moment would have marched on the Palace to attack it. She beckoned to a postilion, an old smuggler and a devoted servant, who followed her.
“You will disguise yourself as a contadino in easy circumstances, you will get out of Parma as best you can, hire a sediola and proceed as quickly as possible to Bologna. You will enter Bologna as a casual visitor and by the Florence gate, and you will deliver to Fabrizio, who is at the Pellegrino, a packet which Cecchina will give you. Fabrizio is in hiding, and is known there as Signor Giuseppe Bossi; do not give him away by any stupid action, do not appear to know him; my enemies will perhaps set spies on your track. Fabrizio will send you back here after a few hours or a few days: and it is on your return journey especially that you must use every precaution not to give him away.”
“Ah! Marchesa Raversi’s people!” cried the postilion. “We are on the lookout for them, and if the Signora wished, they would soon be exterminated.”
“Some other day, perhaps; but don’t, as you value your life, do anything without orders from me.”
It was a copy of the Prince’s note which the Duchessa wished to send to Fabrizio; she could not resist the pleasure of making him amused, and added a word about the scene which had led up to the note; this word became a letter of ten pages. She had the postilion called back.
“You cannot start,” she told him, “before four o’clock, when the gates are opened.”
“I was thinking of going out by the big conduit; I should be up to my neck in water, but I should get through. …”
“No,” said the Duchessa, “I do not wish to expose one of my most faithful servants to the risk of fever. Do you know anyone in the Archbishop’s household?”
“The second coachman is a friend of mine.”
“Here is a letter for that saintly prelate; make your way quietly into his Palace, get them to take you to his valet; I do not wish Monsignore to be awakened. If he has retired to his room, spend the night in the Palace, and, as he is in the habit of rising at dawn, tomorrow morning, at four o’clock, have yourself announced as coming from me, ask the holy Archbishop for his blessing, hand him the packet you see here, and take the letters that he will perhaps give you for Bologna.”
The Duchessa addressed to the Archbishop the actual original of the Prince’s note; as this note concerned his First Grand Vicar, she begged him to deposit it among the archives of the Palace, where she hoped that their Reverences the Grand Vicars and Canons, her nephew’s colleagues, would be so good as to acquaint themselves with its contents; the whole transaction to be kept in the most profound secrecy.
The Duchessa wrote to Monsignor Landriani with a familiarity which could not fail to charm that honest plebeian; the signature alone filled three lines; the letter, couched in the most friendly tone, was followed by the words: “Angelina-Cornelia-Isotta Valserra del Dongo, duchessa Sanseverina.”
“I don’t believe I have signed all that,” the Duchessa said to herself, “since my marriage contract with the poor Duca; but one only gets hold of those people with that sort of thing, and in the eyes of the middle classes the caricature looks like beauty.” She
