The Breaking of the Storm

answer that he might telegraph through Grünwald; there might be some chance there. Inquiry made at Grünwald. Reply, ‘Yes, and on through Stettin.’ The messenger, an old trustworthy servant, one of the late Herr von Warnow’s, monsieur, took note of everything, and reported it all to mademoiselle in my presence, adding that according to the clerk’s report the telegram would reach Berlin rather late, but certainly in the course of the morning.”

“In your presence, do you say? How came that?”

François shrugged his shoulders.

“Mademoiselle knows how to appreciate my knowledge in such matters⁠—an old courier, monsieur! To speak the truth, I had myself given the messenger the necessary instructions.”

“Why were you not sent?”

François smiled.

“The night was very stormy, monsieur; I am not fond of roughing it. I said I could not ride, and did not know the way.”

“But you can ride, and you know the way to Wissow?”

François bowed.

“How far is it, to ride?”

“If one rides fast, one may do it in half an hour.”

“Even through the storm?”

“I think so, monsieur.”

“And how long would the ladies be, driving?”

“Like the rider, they must take the longest road over the hill and through the villages, monsieur; that could not take less than an hour, monsieur.”

Giraldi had taken out his watch and was making a calculation. He put back the watch.

“It is just twenty minutes past four. You must be ready in ten minutes, at latest, to take a letter from me to madame at Wissow.”

“Impossible, monsieur; even this morning, at eleven o’clock, Frau von Wallbach, who was bent upon going away, could not get horses; nobody will supply them, monsieur.”

“There are the horses which brought me.”

“Impossible, monsieur; I saw them, and they are quite exhausted. It must be a good, fresh horse, monsieur, a riding horse. There are none such in the stable.”

“You can find one if I give you another thousand thalers in case madame is back at the castle before six o’clock.”

“Two thousand, monsieur.”

“Good. And now, paper and ink⁠—quick!”

François brought the required materials in a moment from the next room, and Giraldi was already writing at the table beside his untouched dinner, when François left the dining-room to prepare to earn the second sum, if possible, of which he had serious doubts.

Giraldi wrote:

“Your drive to Wissow is a subterfuge or a flight. I forgive your vacillation, even your desertion, which can only be a passing error, for the sake of the love which you bear me, and which I bear you. And if your love is extinct (mine is not!) the accompanying letter, which I copy for you (the original, which I cannot trust to the messenger, I retain in my own hands), will awake new flames from the ashes, as he has awoke to life for us, in whose death I could never believe. And as my faith was the stronger, so am I in all things stronger, and would make unrestrained and pitiless use of that strength, no longer for myself, but for our son. You know me, Valerie! As the clock strikes six, I leave the castle forever, with the Warnow property, which I carry about me to the last thaler, and which now belongs to mother and son, or to the son alone if it should appear that he has no mother. But it cannot, it will not be. I implore to this end the most holy, the sorrow-laden Mother of God. She who bore all the pangs of maternity will guide a mother’s heart!

“Giraldi.

“Warnow. Half-past four in the afternoon.”

He took a letter from his pocket, which he had received last night when he got home from Philip’s party, and had first found time to read in the waiting-room at the railway station, and wrote, with a hand that flew like lightning over the paper:

“With failing hands, and eyes darkened by the shadow of death, I write this: Antonio Michele is your son. A very aged woman in Arsoli, who has been known since she suddenly appeared in this place, seven and twenty years ago, under the name of Antonia Falcone, but whose real name is Barbara Cecutti, and who was the mother of that Lazzaro who carried off your child from Pœstum, confessed this to me yesterday on her deathbed. She was found by the woman Michele in a ravine of the hills above Tivoli, on the verge of starvation, the stolen child beside her almost at the last gasp too, the wounded Lazzaro having breathed his last an hour before, during their flight. The woman Michele took pity upon these unfortunate creatures; the two women swore, on the Host, the one never to say that she had received the child from Barbara, and the other that she had given him to the Michele, so that Barbara might wear out the end of her life undisturbed by the police, and that Father Michele might make no inquiries after the parents of the child, whom his wife pretended to have found on the hills, exposed, like Moses on the shores of the Nile, by a poor girl whom she knew well, but whose name she would not mention. She had never had any children herself, though she had longed for them, and would not part with this one at any price. She carried her secret with her to the grave. Barbara Cecutti also is now no more; and you, my dear sir, receive this legacy from the dead at the hand of a dying man. The ways of God are wonderful! Let us praise His mercies! Amen!

Ambrosio.”

“Dear Sir,

“From the hand of a dying man, indeed! Our good brother Ambrosio⁠—but just returned from his charitable mission⁠—has this night departed, let us hope, into eternal blessedness, as no purgatory can be needed for him who was a saint on earth, I send you his bequest, and beg you to transfer to my poor convent the expression of your gratitude for the happy tidings