“Your commands, signorina?”
“We wish to come in.”
“But it is against the orders. Friday is visiting-day at thirteen o’clock. If the signorina had a permesso from the sindaco, why then—”
The signorina shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She had no permesso and it was too much trouble to get one. Besides, the sindaco’s office didn’t open till ten o’clock. She glanced down; there was a shining two-franc piece in her hand. Perhaps the jailoress would allow them to step inside away from the crowd and she would explain?
This sounded reasonable; the door opened farther and they squeezed through. It banged in the faces of the disappointed spectators, who lingered hopefully a few moments longer, and then returned to their bargaining. Inside the big damp stone-walled corridor Constance drew a deep breath and smiled upon the jailoress; the jailoress smiled back. Then as a preliminary skirmish, Constance presented the two-franc piece; and the jailoress dropped a courtesy.
“We have heard that Antonio, our donkey-driver, has been arrested for deserting from the army and we have come to find out about it. My father, the signore here—” she waved her hand toward Mr. Wilder—“likes Antonio very much and is quite sure that it is a mistake.”
The woman’s mouth hardened; she nodded with emphasis.
“Già. We have him, the man Antonio, if that is his name. He may not be the deserter they search—I do not know—but if he is not the deserter he is something else. You should have heard him last night, signorina, when they brought him in. The things he said! They were in a foreign tongue; I did not understand, but I felt. Also he kicked my husband—kicked him quite hard so that he limps today. And the way he orders us about! You would think he were a prince in his own palace and we were his servants. Nothing is good enough for him. He objected to the room we gave him first because it smelt of the cooking. He likes butter with his bread and hot milk with his coffee. He cannot smoke the cigars which my husband bought for him, and they cost three soldi apiece. And this morning—” her voice rose shrilly as she approached the climax—“he called for a bath. It is true, signorina, a bath. Dio mio, he wished me to carry the entire village fountain to his room!”
“Not really?” Constance opened her eyes in shocked surprise. “But surely, signora, you did not do it?”
The woman blinked.
“It would be impossible, signorina,” she contented herself with saying.
Constance, with grave concern, translated the sum of Tony’s enormities to her father; and turned back to the jailoress apologetically.
“My father is very much grieved that the man should have caused you so much trouble. But he says, that if we could see him, we could persuade him to be more reasonable. We talk his language, and can make him understand.”
The woman winked meaningly.
“Eh—he pretends he cannot talk Italian, but he understands enough to ask for what he wishes. I think—and the Signor-Lieutenant who ordered his arrest thinks—that he is shamming.”
“It was a lieutenant who ordered his arrest? Do you remember his name—was it Carlo di Ferara?”
“It might have been.” Her face was vague.
“Of the cavalry?”
“Si, signorina, of the cavalry—and very handsome.”
Constance laughed. “Well, the plot thickens! Dad, you must come to Tony’s hearing this afternoon, and put it tactfully to our friend the lieutenant that we don’t like to have our donkey-man snatched away without our permission.” She turned back to the jailoress. “And now, where is the man? We should like to speak with him.”
“It is against the orders, but perhaps—I have already permitted the head waiter from the Hotel du Lac to carry him newspapers and cigarettes. He says that the man Antonio is in reality an American nobleman from New York who merely plays at being a donkey-driver for diversion, and that unless he is set at liberty immediately a ship will come with cannon, but—we all know Gustavo, signorina.”
Constance nodded and laughed.
“You have reason! We all know Gustavo—may we go right up?”
The jailoress called the jailor. They talked aside; the two-franc piece was produced as evidence. The jailor with a great show of caution got out a bunch of keys and motioned them to follow. Up two flights and down a long corridor with peeling frescoes on the walls—nymphs and cupids and garlands of roses; most incongruous decorations for a jail—at last they paused before a heavy oak door. Their guide tried two wrong keys, swore softly as each failed to turn, and finally with an exclamation of triumph produced the right one. He swung the door wide and stepped back with a bow.
A large room was revealed, brick-floored and somewhat scanty as to furniture, but with a view—an admirable view, if one did not mind its being checked off into iron squares. The most conspicuous object in the room, however, was its occupant, as he sat, in an essentially American attitude, with his chair tipped back and his feet on the table. A cloud of tobacco smoke and a wide spread copy of a New York paper concealed him from too impertinent gaze. He did not raise his head at the sound of the opening door but contented himself with growling:
“Confound your impudence! You might at least knock before you come in.”
Constance laughed and advanced a hesitating step across the threshold. Tony dropped his paper and sprang to his feet, his face assuming a shade of pink only less vivid than the oleanders. She shook her head sorrowfully.
“I don’t need to tell you, Tony, how shocked we are to find you in such a place. Our trust has been rudely shaken; we had not supposed we were harboring a deserter.”
Mr. Wilder stepped forward and held out his hand; there was a twinkle in his eye which he struggled manfully to suppress.
“Nonsense, Tony, we don’t believe a word of it. You a deserter from the Italian army? It’s preposterous! Where are your naturalization papers?”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilder, but I don’t happen to have my papers with me—I trust it won’t be necessary to produce them. You see—” his glance rested entirely on Mr. Wilder; he studiously overlooked Constance’s presence—“this Angelo Fresi, the fellow they are after, got into a quarrel over a gambling debt and struck a superior officer. To avoid being court-martialed he lit out; it happened a month ago in Milan and they’ve been looking for him ever since. Now last night I had the misfortune to tip Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara over into a ditch. The matter was entirely accidental and I regretted it very much. I, of course, apologized. But what did the lieutenant do but take it into his head that I, being an assaulter of superior officers, was, by a priori reasoning, this Angelo Fresi in disguise. Accordingly—” he waved his hand around the room—“you see me here.”
“It’s an imposition! Depriving an American citizen of his liberty on any such trumped-up charge as that! I’ll telegraph the consul in Milan. I’ll—”
“Oh, don’t trouble. I’ll get off this afternoon; they’ve sent for someone to identify me, and if he doesn’t succeed, I don’t see how they can hold me. In the meantime, I’m comfortable enough.”
Mr. Wilder’s eye wandered about the room. “H’m, it isn’t bad for a jail! Got everything you need—tobacco, papers? What’s this, New York Sun only ten days old?” He picked it up and plunged into the headlines.
Constance turned from the window and glanced casually at Tony.
“You didn’t go to Austria after all?”
“I was detained; I hope to get off tomorrow.”
“Oh, before I forget it.” She removed the basket from her arm and set it on the table. “Here is some lemon jelly, Tony. I couldn’t remember whether one takes lemon jelly to prisoners or invalids—I’ve never known any prisoners before, you see. But anyway, I hope you’ll like it; Elizabetta made it.”