Next morning I kept my appointment and met Ferrari at the railway station. He looked pale and haggard, though he brightened a little on seeing me. He was curiously irritable and fussy with the porters concerning his luggage, and argued with them about some petty trifles as obstinately and pertinaciously as a deaf old woman. His nerves were evidently jarred and unstrung, and it was a relief when he at last got into his coupe. He carried a yellow paper-covered volume in his hand. I asked him if it contained any amusing reading.
"I really do not know," he answered, indifferently, "I have only just bought it. It is by Victor Hugo."
And he held up the title-page for me to see.
"Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamne," I read aloud with careful slowness. "Ah, indeed! You do well to read that. It is a very fine study!"
The train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the carriage window and beckoned me to approach more closely.
"Remember!" he whispered, "I trust you to take care of her!"
"Never fear!" I answered, "I will do my best to replace YOU!"
He smiled a pale uneasy smile, and pressed my hand. These were our last words, for with a warning shriek the train moved off, and in another minute had rushed out of sight. I was alone--alone with perfect freedom of action--I could do as I pleased with my wife now! I could even kill her if I chose--no one would interfere. I could visit her that evening and declare myself to her--could accuse her of her infidelity and stab her to the heart! Any Italian jury would find "extenuating circumstances" for me. But why? Why should I lay myself open to a charge of murder, even for a just cause? No! my original design was perfect, and I must keep to it and work it out with patience, though patience was difficult. While I thus meditated, walking from the station homeward, I was startled by the unexpected appearance of my valet, who came upon me quite suddenly. He was out of breath with running, and he carried a note for me marked "Immediate." It was from my wife, and ran briefly thus: "Please come at once. Stella is very ill, and asks for you."
"Who brought this?" I demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to Vincenzo to keep beside me.
"The old man, eccellenza--Giacomo. He was weeping and in great trouble--he said the little donzella had the fever in her throat--it is the diphtheria he means, I think. She was taken ill in the middle of the night, but the nurse thought it was nothing serious. This morning she has been getting worse, and is in danger."