The Cardinal's Snuff Box

Peter climbed up to his observatory--a square four-windowed

turret, at the top of the house--thence to watch the storm and

exult in it. Really it was splendid--to see, to hear; its

immense wild force, its immense reckless fury. Rain had never

rained so hard, he thought. Already, the lake, the mountain

slopes, the villas and vineyards westward, were totally blotted

out, hidden behind walls and walls of water; and even the

neighbouring lawns of Ventirose, the confines of his own

garden, were barely distinguishable, blurred as by a fog. The

big drops pelted the river like bullets, sending up splashes

bigger than themselves. And the tiled roof just above his head

resounded with a continual loud crepitation, as if a multitude

of iron-shod elves were dancing on it. The thunder crashed,

roared, reverberated, like the toppling of great edifices. The

lightning tore through the black cloud-canopy in long blinding

zig-zags. The wind moaned, howled, hooted--and the square

chamber where Peter stood shook and rattled under its

buffetings, and was full of the chill and the smell of it.

Really the whole thing was splendid.

His garden-paths ran with muddy brooklets; the high-road beyond

his hedge was transformed to a shallow torrent . . . . And,

just at that moment, looking off along the highroad, he saw

something that brought his heart into his throat.

Three figures were hurrying down it, half-drowned in the rain

--the Duchessa di Santangiolo, Emilia Manfredi, and a priest.

In a twinkling, Peter, bareheaded, was at his gate.

"Come in--come in," he called.

"We are simply drenched--we shall inundate your house," the

Duchessa said, as he showed them into his sitting-room.

They were indeed dripping with water, soiled to their knees

with mud.

"Good heavens!" gasped Peter, stupid. "How were you ever out

in such a downpour?"

She smiled, rather forlornly.

"No one told us that it was going to rain, and we were off for

a good long walk--for pleasure."

"You must be wet to the bone--you must be perishing with cold,"

he cried, looking from one to another.

"Yes, I daresay we are perishing with cold," she admitted.

"And I have no means of offering you a fire--there are no

fireplaces," he groaned, with a gesture round the bleak Italian

room, to certify their absence.

"Is n't there a kitchen?" asked the Duchessa, a faint spark of

raillery kindling amid the forlornness of her smile.

Peter threw up his hands.

"I had lost my head. The kitchen, of course. I 'll tell

Marietta to light a fire."