The Cardinal's snuff-box
“But--but Turin--Turin is hundreds of kilometres from here,” she said,
in a kind of gasp.
“Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“You are going to Turin--you two children--walking--like that!” she
persisted.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“But--but it will take you a month.”
“Pardon, noble lady,” said the boy. “With your Excellency's permission,
we were told it should take fifteen days.”
“Where do you come from?” she asked.
“From Bergamo, Excellency.”
“When did you leave Bergamo?”
“Yesterday morning, Excellency.”
“The little girl is your sister?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Have you a mother and father?”
“A father, Excellency. The mother is dead.” Each of the children made
the Sign of the Cross; and Peter was somewhat surprised, no doubt, to
see the Duchessa do likewise. He had yet to learn the beautiful custom
of that pious Lombard land, whereby, when the Dead are mentioned, you
make the Sign of the Cross, and, pausing reverently for a moment, say in
silence the traditional prayer of the Church:
“May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the
Mercy of God, rest in peace.”
“And where is your father?” the Duchessa asked.
“In Turin, Excellency,” answered the boy. “He is a glass-blower. After
the strike at Bergamo, he went to Turin to seek work. Now he has found
it. So he has sent for us to come to him.”
“And you two children--alone--are going to walk all the way to Turin!”
She could not get over the pitiful wonder of it.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“The heart-rending little waifs,” she said, in English, with something
like a sob. Then, in Italian, “But--but how do you live by the way?”
The boy touched his shoulder-load of baskets.
“We sell these, Excellency.”
“What is their price?” she asked.
“Thirty soldi, Excellency.”
“Have you sold many since you started?”
The boy looked away; and now it was his turn to hang his head, and to
let his toes work nervously in the dust.
“Haven't you sold any?” she exclaimed, drawing her conclusions.
“No, Excellency. The people would not buy,” he owned, in a dull voice,
keeping his eyes down.
“Poverino,” she murmured. “Where are you going to sleep to-night?”
“In a house, Excellency,” said he.
But that seemed to strike the Duchessa as somewhat vague.
“In what house?” she asked.
“I do not know, Excellency,” he confessed. “We will find a house.”
“Would you like to come back with me, and sleep at my house?”
The boy and girl looked at each other, taking mute counsel.
Then, “Pardon, noble lady--with your Excellency's permission, is it
far?” the boy questioned.
“I am afraid it is not very near--three or four kilometres.”
Again the children looked at each other, conferring. Afterwards, the boy
shook his head.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency. With your permission, we must not turn
back. We must walk on till later. At night we will find a house.”
“They are too proud to own that their house will be a hedge,” she said
to Peter, again in English. “Aren't you hungry?” she asked the children.
“No, Excellency. We had bread in the village, below there,” answered the
boy.
“You will not come home with me, and have a good dinner, and a good
night's sleep?”
“Pardon, Excellency. With your favour, the father would not wish us to
turn back.”
The Duchessa looked at the little girl.
The little girl wore a medal of the Immaculate Conception on a ribbon
round her neck--a forlorn blue ribbon, soiled and frayed.
“Oh, you have a holy medal,” said the Duchessa.
“Yes, noble lady,” said the girl, dropping a courtesy, and lifting up
her sad little weazened face.
“She has been saying her prayers all along the road,” the boy
volunteered.
“That is right,” approved the Duchessa. “You have not made your First
Communion yet, have you?”
“No, Excellency,” said the girl. “I shall make it next year.”
“And you?” the Duchessa asked the boy.
“I made mine at Corpus Christi,” said the boy, with a touch of pride.
The Duchessa turned to Peter.
“Do you know, I haven't a penny in my pocket. I have come out without my
purse.”
“How much ought one to give them?” Peter asked.
“Of course, there is the fear that they might be robbed,” she reflected.
“If one should give them a note of any value, they would have to change
it; and they would probably be robbed. What to do?”
“I will speak to the boy,” said Peter. “Would you like to go to Turin by
train?” he asked.
The boy and girl looked at each other. “Yes, Excellency,” said the boy.
“But if I give you money for your fare, will you know how to take care
of it--how to prevent people from robbing you?”
“Oh, yes, Excellency.”
“You could take the train this evening, at Venzona, about two kilometres
from here, in the direction you are walking. In an hour or two you would
arrive at Milan; there you would change into the train for Turin. You
would be at Turin to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“But if I give you money, you will not let people rob you? If I give you
a hundred lire?”
The boy drew back, stared, as if frightened.
“A hundred lire--?” he said.
“Yes,” said Peter.
The boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility,” he said. “With your condescension, does it cost a
hundred lire to go to Turin by train?”
“Oh, no. I think it costs eight or ten.”
Again the boy looked at his sister.
“Pardon, Nobility. With your Excellency's permission, we should not
desire a hundred lire then,” he said.
Peter and the Duchessa were not altogether to be blamed, I hope, if they
exchanged the merest hint of a smile.
“Well, if I should give you fifty?” Peter asked.
“Fifty lire, Excellency?”
Peter nodded.
Still again the boy sought counsel of his sister, with his eyes.
“Yes, Excellency,” he said.
“You are sure you will be able to take care of it--you will not let
people rob you,” the Duchessa put in, anxious. “They will wish to
rob you. If you go to sleep in the train, they will try to pick your
pocket.”
“I will hide it, noble lady. No one shall rob me. If I go to sleep in
the train, I will sit on it, and my sister will watch. If she goes to
sleep, I will watch,” the boy promised confidently.
“You must give it to him in the smallest change you can possibly scrape
together,” she advised Peter.
And with one-lira, two-lira, ten-lira notes, and with a little silver
and copper, he made up the amount.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the boy, with a bow that was
magnificent; and he proceeded to distribute the money between various
obscure pockets.
“A thousand thanks, Excellency,” said the girl, with a courtesy.
“Addio, a buon' viaggio,” said Peter.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the boy.
“Addio, Eccellenze,” said the girl.
But the Duchessa impulsively stooped down, and kissed the girl on her
poor little wrinkled brow. And when she stood up, Peter saw that her
eyes were wet.
The children moved off. They moved off, whispering together, and
gesticulating, after the manner of their race: discussing something.
Presently they stopped; and the boy came running back, while his sister
waited.
He doffed his hat, and said, “A thousand pardons, Excellency-”
“Yes? What is it?” Peter asked.
“With your Excellency's favour--is it obligatory that we should take the
train?”
“Obligatory?” puzzled Peter. “How do you mean?”
“If it is not obligatory, we would prefer, with the permission of your
Excellency, to save the money.”
“But--but then you will have to walk!” cried Peter.
“But if it is not obligatory to take the train, we would pray your
Excellency's permission to save the money. We should like to save the
money, to give it to the father. The father is very poor. Fifty lire is
so much.”
This time it was Peter who looked for counsel to the Duchessa.
Her eyes, still bright with tears, responded, “Let them do as they
will.”
“No, it is not obligatory--it is only recommended,” he said to the boy,
with a smile that he could n't help. “Do as you will. But if I were you,
I should spare my poor little feet.”
“Mille grazie, Eccellenze,” the boy said, with a final sweep of his
tattered hat. He ran back to his sister; and next moment they were
walking resolutely on, westward, “into the great red light.”
The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them.
They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned,
disappeared.
At last the Duchessa spoke--but almost as if speaking to herself.
“There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your
hand,” she said.
We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had
found him out? A sound, confused, embarrassed, something composite,
between an oh and ayes, seemed to expire in his throat.
But the Duchessa did n't appear to heed it.
“Don't you think it would be a touching episode for your friend to write
a story round?” she asked.
We may guess whether he was relieved.
“Oh--oh, yes,” he agreed, with the precipitancy of a man who, in his
relief, would agree to anything.
“Have you ever seen such courage?” she went on. “The wonderful babies!
Fancy fifteen days, fifteen days and nights, alone, unprotected, on the
highway, those poor little atoms! Down in their hearts they are really
filled with terror. Who would n't be, with such a journey before him?
But how finely they concealed it, mastered it! Oh, I hope they won't be
robbed. God help them--God help them!”
“God help them, indeed,” said Peter.
“And the little girl, with her medal of the Immaculate Conception. The
father, after all, can hardly be the brute one might suspect, since he
has given them a religious education. Oh, I am sure, I am sure, it was
the Blessed Virgin herself who sent us across their path, in answer to
that poor little creature's prayers.”
“Yes,” said Peter, ambiguously perhaps. But he liked the way in which
she united him to herself in the pronoun.
“Which, of course,” she added, smiling gravely into his eyes, “seems the
height of absurdity to you?”
“Why should it seem the height of absurdity to me?” he asked.
“You are a Protestant, I suppose?”
“I suppose so. But what of that? At all events, I believe there are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the usual
philosophies. And I see no reason why it should not have been the
Blessed Virgin who sent us across their path.”
“What would your Protestant pastors and masters do, if they heard you?
Isn't that what they call Popish superstition?”
“I daresay. But I'm not sure that there's any such thing as
superstition. Superstition, in its essence, is merely a recognition of
the truth that in a universe of mysteries and contradictions, like ours,
nothing conceivable or inconceivable is impossible.”
“Oh, no, no,” she objected. “Superstition is the belief in something
that is ugly and bad and unmeaning. That is the difference between
superstition and religion. Religion is the belief in something that is
beautiful and good and significant--something that throws light into the
dark places of life--that helps us to see and to live.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “I admit the distinction.” After a little suspension,
“I thought,” he questioned, “that all Catholics were required to go to
Mass on Sunday?”
“Of course--so they are,” said she.
“But--but you--” he began.
“I hear Mass not on Sunday only--I hear it every morning of my life.”
“Oh? Indeed? I beg your pardon,” he stumbled. “I--one--one never sees
you at the village church.”
“No. We have a chapel and a chaplain at the castle.”
She mounted her bicycle.
“Good-bye,” she said, and lightly rode away.
“So-ho! Her bigotry is not such a negligible quantity, after all,” Peter
concluded.
“But what,” he demanded of Marietta, as she ministered to his wants