The Call of the Blood - Page 162/317

"Any letters for me, Don Paolo?" he asked of the postmaster.

The old man saluted him languidly through the peep-hole.

"Si, signore, ce ne sono."

He turned to seek for them while Maurice waited. He heard the flies

buzzing. Their noise was loud in his ears. His heart beat strongly and he

was gnawed by suspense. Never before had he felt so anxious, so impatient

to know anything as he was now to know if among the letters there was one

from Hermione.

"Ecco, signore!"

"Grazie!"

Maurice took the packet.

"A rivederci!"

"A rivederlo, signore."

He went away down the street. But now he had his letters he did not look

at them immediately. Something held him back from looking at them until

he had come again into the Piazza. It was still deserted. He went over to

the seat by the wall, and sat down sideways, so that he could look over

the wall to the sea immediately below him. Then, very slowly, he drew out

his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette, lit it, and began to smoke like

a man who was at ease and idle. He glanced over the wall. At the foot of

the precipice by the sea was the station of Cattaro, at which Hermione

and Artois would arrive when they came. He could see the platform, some

trucks of merchandise standing on the rails, the white road winding by

towards San Felice and Etna. After a long look down he turned at last to

the packet from the post which he had laid upon the hot stone at his

side. The Times, the "Pink 'un," the Illustrated London News, and

three letters. The first was obviously a bill forwarded from London. The

second was also from England. He recognized the handwriting of his

mother. The third? He turned it over. Yes, it was from Hermione. His

instinct had not deceived him. He was certain, too, that it did not

deceive him now. He was certain that this was the letter that fixed the

date of her coming with Artois. He opened the two other letters and

glanced over them, and then at last he tore the covering from Hermione's.

A swift, searching look was enough. The letter dropped from his hand to

the seat. He had seen these words: "Isn't it splendid? Emile may leave at once. But there is no good boat

till the tenth. We shall take that, and be at Cattaro on the eleventh at

five o'clock in the afternoon...."

"Isn't it splendid?"