Part 25 (1/2)

”You're wrong, Baynton, he is a gentleman,” said Lord Selby, as he pocketed the card, ”though certainly he is not a very mild-tempered specimen of his order.”

”You did n't give the newspaper as he said--”

”Nothing of the kind. I was reading it aloud to you when the royal carriages came suddenly past; and, in taking off my hat to salute, I never noticed that the old Duke had carried off the paper. I know he can't read English, and the chances are, he has asked this Scythian gentleman to interpret for him.”

”So, then, the affair is easily settled,” said the other, quietly.

”Of course it is,” was the answer; and they both lounged about among the carriages, which already were thinning, and, after a while, set out towards the city.

They had but just reached the hotel, when a stranger presented himself to them as the Count de Marny. He had come as the friend of Prince Volkoffsky, who had fully explained to him the event of that afternoon.

”Well,” said Baynton, ”we are of opinion your friend has conducted himself exceedingly ill, and we are here to receive his excuses.”

”I am afraid, messieurs,” said the Frenchman, bowing, ”that it will exhaust your patience if you continue to wait for them. Might it not be better to come and accept what he is quite prepared to offer you,--satisfaction?”

”Be it so,” said Lord Selby: ”he 'll see his mistake some time or other, and perhaps regret it. Where shall it be?--and when?”

”At the Fos...o...b..oni Villa, about two miles from this. To-morrow morning, at eight, if that suit you.”

”Quite well. I have no other appointment. Pistols, of course?”

”You have the choice, otherwise my friend would have preferred the sword.”

”Take him at his word, Selby,” whispered Baynton; ”you are equal to any of them with the rapier.”

”If your friend desire the sword, I have no objection,--I mean the rapier.”

”The rapier be it,” said the Frenchman; and with a polite a.s.surance of the infinite honor he felt in forming their acquaintance, and the gratifying certainty that they were sure to possess of his highest consideration, he bowed, backed, and withdrew.

”Well-mannered fellow, the Frenchman,” said Baynton, as the door closed; and the other nodded a.s.sent, and rang the bell for dinner.

CHAPTER XX. THE VILLA FOs...o...b..ONI

The grounds of the Villa Fos...o...b..oni were, at the time we speak of, the Chalk Farm, or the Fifteen Acres of Tuscany. The villa itself, long since deserted by the ill.u.s.trious family whose name it bore, had fallen into the hands of an old Pied-montese n.o.ble, ruined by a long life of excess and dissipation. He had served with gallantry in the imperial army of France, but was dismissed the service for a play transaction in which his conduct was deeply disgraceful; and the Colonel Count Ta.s.seroni, of the 8th Hussars of the Guards, was declared unworthy to wear the uniform of a Frenchman.

For a number of years he had lived so estranged from the world that many believed he had died; but at last it was known that he had gone to reside in a half-ruined villa near Florence, which soon became the resort of a certain cla.s.s of gamblers whose habits would have speedily attracted notice if practised within the city. The quarrels and altercations, so inseparable from high play, were usually settled on the spot in which they occurred, until at last the villa became famous for these meetings, and the name of Fos...o...b..oni, in a discussion, was the watchword for a duel.

It was of a splendid spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived at this spot, which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come, struck them with surprise and admiration. The villa itself was one of those vast structures which the country about Florence abounds in.

Gloomy, stern, and jail-like without, while within, splendid apartments opened into each other in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed walls and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings and rich tracery, were on every side; and these, too, in chambers where the immense proportions and the vast s.p.a.ce recalled the idea of a royal residence. Pa.s.sing in by a dilapidated ”grille” which once had been richly gilded, they entered by a flight of steps a great hall which ran the entire length of the building. Though lighted by a double range of windows, neglect and dirt had so dimmed the panes that the place was almost in deep shadow. Still, they could perceive that the vaulted roof was a ma.s.s of stuccoed tracery, and that the colossal divisions of the wall were of brilliant Sienna marble. At one end of this great gallery was a small chapel, now partly despoiled of its religious decorations, which were most irreverently replaced by a variety of swords and sabres of every possible size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged with an evident eye to picturesque grouping.

”What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton?” cried Selby, as he stood endeavoring to decipher the lines on a little marble slab, a number of which were dotted over the chapel.

”Strange enough this, by Jove!” muttered the other, reading to himself, half aloud, ”'Francesco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29 Settembre, 1818.'”

”What does that mean?” asked Selby.

”It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '18.”

”Are they all in the same vein?” asked the other.