Clementina

"It is Major Gaydon."

Gaydon had to make the best of the business. He bowed.

"Mr. Whittington, I think."

"Sir," said Whittington, politely, "I am honoured by your memory. For

myself, I never forget a face though I see it but for a moment between

the light and the dark, but I do not expect the like from my

acquaintances. We did meet, I believe, in Paris? You are of Dillon's

regiment?"

"And on leave in Rome," said Gaydon, a trifle hastily.

"On leave?" said Whittington, idly. "Well, so far as towns go, Rome is

as good as another, though, to tell the truth, I find them all quite

unendurable. Would I were on leave! but I am pinned here, a watchman

with a lantern. I do but lack a rattle, though, to be sure, I could not

spring it. We are secret to-night, major. Do you know what house this

is?"

"No," replied Gaydon. "But I am waited for and will bid you good-night."

He had a thought that the Chevalier, since he would be secret, had

chosen his watchman rather ill. He had no wish to pry, and so was for

returning to his lodging; but that careless, imprudent man, Whittington,

would not lose a companion so easily. He caught Gaydon by the arm.

"Well, it is the house of Maria Vittoria, Mademoiselle de Caprara, the

heiress of Bologna, who has only this evening come to Rome. And so no

later than this evening I am playing link-boy, appointed by letters

patent, one might say. But what will you? Youth is youth, whether in a

ploughboy or a--But my tongue needs a gag. Another word, and I had said

too much. Well, since you will be going, good-night. We shall meet, no

doubt, in a certain house that overlooks the Tiber."

"Hardly," said Gaydon, "since I leave Rome to-morrow."

"Indeed? You leave Rome to-morrow?" said Whittington. "I would I were as

fortunate," and he jerked his thumb dolefully towards the Caprara

Palace. Gaydon hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not he

should ask Whittington to be silent upon their meeting. But he

determined the man was too incautious in his speech. If he begged him

not to mention Gaydon's presence in Rome, he would remember it the more

surely, and if nothing was said he might forget it. Gaydon wished him

good-night and went back to his lodging, walking rather moodily.

Whittington looked after him and chuckled.

Meanwhile, in a room of the house two people sat,--one the slight,

graceful man who had accompanied Whittington and whom Gaydon had

correctly guessed to be his King, the other, Maria Vittoria de Caprara.

The Chevalier de St. George was speaking awkwardly with a voice which

broke. Maria listened with a face set and drawn. She was a girl both in

features and complexion of a remarkable purity. Of colour, but for her

red lips, she had none. Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor

which her hair made yet more pale. Her eyes matched her hair, and were

so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them.

She was a poet's simile for night.