He delivered his last phrases with an accent, he punctuated
them with a glance, in which there may have lurked an
intention.
But the Duchessa did not appear to notice it.
"Yes--true--so we do," she assented vaguely. "And what you
tell me of the sparrows in the Hesperides is very novel and
impressive--unless, indeed, it is a mere traveller's tale, with
which you are seeking to practise upon my credulity. But since
I find you in this communicative vein, will you not push
complaisance a half-inch further, and tell me what that thing
is, suspended there in the sky above the crest of the
Cornobastone--that pale round thing, that looks like the
spectre of a magnified half-crown?"
Peter turned to the quarter her gaze indicated.
"Oh, that," he said, "is nothing. In frankness, it is only
what the vulgar style the moon."
"How odd," said she. "I thought it was what the vulgar style
the moon."
And they both laughed again.
The Duchessa moved a little; and thus she uncovered, carved on
the back of her marble bench, and blazoned in red and gold, a
coat of arms.
She touched the shield with her finger.
"Are you interested in canting heraldry?" she asked. "There is
no country so rich in it as Italy. These are the arms of the
Farfalla, the original owners of this property. Or, seme of
twenty roses gules; the crest, on a rose gules, a butterfly or,
with wings displayed; and the motto--how could the heralds ever
have sanctioned such an unheraldic and unheroic motto?
Rosa amorosa,
Farfalla giojosa,
Mi cantano al cuore
La gioja e l' amore.
They were the great people of this region for countless
generations, the Farfalla. They were Princes of Ventirose and
Patricians of Milan. And then the last of them was ruined at
Monte Carlo, and killed himself there, twenty-odd years ago.
That is how all their gioja and amore ended. It was the case
of a butterfly literally broken upon a wheel. The estate fell
into the hands of the Jews, as everything more or less does
sooner or later; and they--if you can believe me--they were
going to turn the castle into an hotel, into one of those
monstrous modern hotels, for other Jews to come to, when I
happened to hear of it, and bought it. Fancy turning that
splendid old castle into a Jew-infested hotel! It is one of
the few castles in Italy that have a ghost. Oh, but a quite
authentic ghost. It is called the White Page--il Paggio Bianco
di Ventirose. It is the ghost of a boy about sixteen. He
walks on the ramparts of the old keep, and looks off towards
the lake, as if he were watching a boat, and sometimes he waves
his arms, as if he were signalling. And from head to foot he
is perfectly white, like a statue. I have never seen him
myself; but so many people say they have, I cannot doubt he is
authentic. And the Jews wanted to turn this haunted castle
into an hotel . . . As a tribute to the memory of the
Farfalla, I take pains to see that their arms, which are
carved, as you see them here, in at least a hundred different
places, are remetalled and retinctured as often as time and the
weather render it necessary."