Gian-Luca said gently: “Listen, donna mia, I know that this thing had to be—I came as a man who longed for a country, but I go as a man who no longer needs a country, for no country on earth could give me what I need—what I must some day find.” He did not know what he meant by the words, did not know, indeed, why he spoke them; but he went on gently stroking her hand, and now he heard himself speaking again: “It is you that I pity, you are patient and loving, and always you share my misfortunes—but try not to cry; you will go back, I know, you will go back to the Campagna—” and he added: “Just think of the white mule, Umberto, who was such an old robber of grapes!” Then Maddalena must smile through her tears, remembering the wicked Umberto.
“And the sheep all wear little bells,” said Maddalena.
“Si, si,” he consoled, “they all wear little bells—and your Christ left the print of His foot in the stone—and at sunrise the mists look purple and golden—you have often told me about it.”
She said: “But will you come with me, Gian-Luca?”
And he answered: “Rome is the cradle of your faith—would you not like to see St. Peter’s again, after all these years, Maddalena?”
“Yes, yes—but you will come with me?” she persisted. And he answered: “It is very wonderful, St. Peter’s—all night and all day they burn eighty-nine lamps, and the faithful kneel down and pray at the tomb—you have often told me about it.”
Then her eyes grew reminiscent, and she started to tell him many things about the churches of Rome: San Pietro in Vincoli—old, very old, and containing the chains of St. Peter; Santa Prassede with its bones of the martyr; Santa Bibiana, with its stump of a column at which the good saint had been scourged. And as she talked on he nodded and smiled and continued to fondle her hand.
“Ma si,” he murmured, “I am glad that you are Roman—it must feel very fine to be Roman, I think—so many brave deeds behind you, Maddalena—and you too are brave, one can see it in your face; and now, look, you have quite stopped crying!”
The train had jolted itself into Modane, and all was noise and confusion. Shouting officials running backwards and forwards, dignified English folk talking Italian learnt from inadequate handbooks. There were people snatching a hasty sandwich or an orange, or an apple, or a bun—not a fat currant bun, but its thin Latin cousin containing no currants at all. Presently the train was ready to start: “In vagone! In vagone! Partenza!”
And that was how Gian-Luca left the land of his fathers, taking Maddalena with him.
VIII
I
On his return Gian-Luca went to Millo and tendered his resignation. This he did very simply, giving no excuse, for indeed he had none to offer. “I cannot come back to the Doric,” he told Millo. “I cannot any longer be a waiter—all I can do is to thank you from my heart for your very great kindness and patience.”
Millo, who had long since ceased to be surprised at any queer happening in this queerest of worlds, said: “Allora—and what then?”
And Gian-Luca answered: “I myself am waiting to know.” Then he handed Millo those four months’ wages that had been his retaining fee, but at this Millo made a sound of impatience: “Do not be such an imbecile, Gian-Luca! You can give the money to Maddalena—at all events I do not want it.”
“I have not earned it,” Gian-Luca persisted, “for I cannot return to your service.”
“Well, never mind all that—” grunted Millo; then he added curiously: “You have left my service—whose service will you be in next, I wonder?” And he stared with interest at Gian-Luca.
Gian-Luca shook his head, and his strange, pale eyes looked past Millo and out beyond. “That I cannot tell you—” he said very gravely. “I must try to find myself first, signore—I am utterly lost—I must find myself again—and something else that I need.”
Millo sighed; he was going to sustain a great loss, he was losing his finest headwaiter. He had hoped against hope that Gian-Luca would come home quite cured of his curious condition. And then he was genuinely fond of this man who had served him faithfully for years, genuinely worried regarding his future—for Millo knew life even as Teresa knew it, a ruthless, intolerant business this life, in which there was no room for dreamers; so he said:
“You must do what you think best, Gian-Luca, but for God’s sake get rid of your illusions! Remember that the world is a very greedy place—it is only an extension of the Doric. To keep pace with the world one must wink at its follies and if necessary pander a little; there is no room for those who want to dig beneath the surface, we are too overcrowded, we are too civilized, we object to the disturbance and the dirt of excavations—and in any case, no one has time for much spade work, our everyday needs are too numerous.” Then he suddenly held out his hand to Gian-Luca, for he himself was very busy: “Well—I think that is all—take care of yourself, and remember I am here, if you need me.”
Gian-Luca grasped the strong, friendly hand: “I cannot find anything to say—” he faltered.
“No need,” Millo told him. “We part as good friends—and I hope you will prosper, Gian-Luca.”
Gian-Luca left him and went to the restaurant, where the early morning work was in progress; and there he found little Roberto and Giovanni and Daniele, and several of the others. He said to them all:
“I am leaving the Doric, I have come here to say goodbye.” And the words sounded ominous and sad to his
