"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?"