“What do you want?” cried Giraldi hotly.
“Monsieur Antonio, monsieur!” said François in a whisper; “he begs so urgently.”
“All right,” said Giraldi. “Show mademoiselle out. I will let in the young man myself. I shall hear from you, mademoiselle. For the present, adieu.”
He walked hastily to the door of the anteroom, whilst Bertalda, conducted by François, rushed to another door leading into his bedroom, and from thence into the second corridor, and only opened it as Bertalda was on the point of disappearing behind the portière, one side of which François had drawn back for her. Antonio, who, standing close to the door and listening, had heard Bertalda’s shriek, and whose mind was filled with the image of Ferdinanda, had immediately concluded that he recognised her voice, and at once stepped in; Bertalda could not so quickly get out. In her embarrassment she had run against the side of the portière which was down, and entangled herself in it, and it was a moment or two before, with François’ help, she was free, long enough for the sharp-eyed Antonio to discover that the lady whom he was putting to flight was not Ferdinanda herself, but the mysterious unknown who had lately come so regularly to Ferdinanda’s studio, and whom he had taken for an ambassador from his deadly enemy. So she did not come from him, but from here! And why should she run off so hastily the moment he was admitted? If the signor mentioned the lady—well, perhaps it was all right—he would try and trust him still, as heretofore; if he did not mention her, he would never believe another word that passed his lips—never!
These thoughts flew through Antonio’s mind as he made his bow; meanwhile Giraldi had recovered from his surprise, and taken his resolution. He had taken it for granted that Antonio, from the studio in which he worked, would remark the coming and going of the black-veiled lady to the other studio, and had consequently enjoined the utmost circumspection upon Bertalda. Antonio was not to learn who she was, least of all that she had any connection with him. Now, in consequence of the youth’s hasty entry, the secret was within a hair’s-breadth of escaping; but that he should have seen, or in any way recognised Bertalda, was quite impossible. The end of the great room was buried in almost total darkness, and as his own attention had been entirely centred on the door by which Antonio would enter, the delay in Bertalda’s departure by the other had escaped his notice. “A second later would have been too late,” he thought to himself, as he took the youth’s hand and—now completely master of himself—said in his usual quiet, friendly tone:
“Welcome, my dear Antonio—no, no, my son—I am not consecrated yet.”
Antonio, bending low, had raised the hand which Giraldi had offered him to his lips. “The less you trust him the more submissive must you be,” said Antonio to himself.
“You are sacred to me, signor,” he said aloud. “The good Brother Ambrose, the benevolent guardian of my wretched youth, is not in my eyes more revered and sacred than you are.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered Giraldi. “The best ornament of youth is a grateful disposition. As a reward for it I can impart to you the good brother’s blessing. I have just received a letter from him. But of that later. First, as to your business here. Have you at last again seen and spoken with her?”
“Only seen, signor—as she left her studio just now to go home. I do not venture to speak to her. She talks, they say, to no one, and no one dares go into her studio except—”
“Her father, probably.”
“A lady, signor, in black, and thickly veiled, who goes to her studio regularly every afternoon. The students take her to be a model.”
It must be decided now; Antonio’s heart beat till Giraldi’s answer came.
“A lady in black and thickly veiled,” repeated Giraldi slowly, as if he was deeply considering the matter; “and only a model? That is surely very unlikely, and very suspicious. We must try to get to the bottom of this.”
He lied. It flashed like lightning through Antonio’s mind that to this man he had confided his secret, the treason which he contemplated, his criminal desires, the very plan of his revenge; he had given all—all into his hands, as to the priest in the confessional, and he lied!
“I have tried to get to the bottom of it, signor,” he said, “but in vain. As she comes and goes while our studio is full of men, I cannot watch her through the door, nor absent myself without causing a sensation. Yesterday I tried under some pretext, but I was too late. A carriage—not an ordinary cab, signor, but a fly—was standing a few yards from the house under the trees near the canal; the unknown got in, and vanished from me in a moment.”
“He will be more cunning next time,” thought Giraldi; “she must on no account go again.”
“At what time does she come?” he asked.
“Between and at first; now, I suppose on account of greater security, between and .”
“Good! Tomorrow I will myself keep watch in my carriage; she shall not escape us, you may depend upon it. And now to continue, has nothing of importance transpired in the conversations between your maestro and the Captain? The name in question not been mentioned?”
“No, signor; on the contrary, since the young lady went away—”
“I know, three days ago.”
“They have been very prudent, and speak so low, that it is impossible to catch more than a word here and there. But instead I have just found this
