Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed young girl might have been.
“The Signorina Emilia,” Marietta promptly informed him.
“Really and truly?” questioned he.
“Ang,” affirmed Marietta, with the national jerk of the head; “the Signorina Emilia Manfredi—the daughter of the Duca.”
“Oh—? Then the Duca was married before?” concluded Peter, with simplicity.
“Che-e-e!” scoffed Marietta, on her highest note. “Married? He?” Then she winked and nodded—as one man of the world to another. “Ma molto porn! La mamma fu robaccia di Milano. But after his death, the Duchessa had her brought to the castle. She is the same as adopted.”
“That looks as if your Duchessa's heart were in the right place, after all,” commented Peter.
“Gia,” agreed Marietta.
“Hang the right place!” cried he. “What's the good of telling me her heart is in the right place, if the right place is inaccessible?”
But Marietta only looked bewildered.
He lived in his garden, he haunted the riverside, he made a daily pilgrimage to the village post, he thoroughly neglected the work he had come to this quiet spot to do. But a week passed, during which he never once beheld so much as the shadow of the Duchessa.
On Sunday he trudged his mile, through the sun, and up the hill, not only to both Masses, but to Vespers and Benediction.
She was present at none of these offices.
“The Pagan!” he exclaimed.
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