The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly: "Oh, si, signor! The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I believe she receives no one since her husband's death. She is young and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too."
A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely: "Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count Romani well--perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him."
Oh, the old mellow music of his voice--how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth. For an instant I could not speak--wrath and sorrow choked my utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary--slowly I raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly: "I am your servant, signor. You will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother--men have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself," and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.
"The Conte Cesare Oliva!" he exclaimed. "I esteem myself most fortunate to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware," here laughing lightly, "of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!"
And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in mine? I must--if I would act my part thoroughly--for should I refuse he would think it strange--even rude--I should lose the game by one false move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also--it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man. It was only this FIRST time that it galled me to the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion--he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other's acquaintance, he exclaimed: "More coffee, garcon, and a couple of glorias." Then looking toward me, "You do not object to a gloria, conte? No? That is well. And here is MY card," taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. "Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one. We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other's health!"