He finally thought of Gianna, though he had been trying to keep her out of his mind. As there seemed little future for the two of them, why not think of the past? Be thankful for what had been, rather than bitter at the thought of what might have been. For her sake, it would have been better if she had never met him - she might be left to live her life long after his head dropped into that damned basket, and it was always worse for those left behind.
She loved him - there was no doubt about that. Yet even if he lived, their future might not lie together. Everyone avoided facing up to it - his own fault, since he dodged it as a topic of conversation - but there were many obstacles in the way of them getting married. For a start, as ruler of the state of Volterra she had to be prepared for her return after Bonaparte's troops had been driven out. She would probably find chaos there, with bitter quarrels between those who had collaborated with Bonaparte and those who had not. It would require real statesmanship to resolve those quarrels between leading families. Was Gianna capable of managing it? He was doubtfuclass="underline" she was too headstrong, too impatient, and perhaps even too demanding. She saw things in black and white rather than in shades of grey, and she would find it hard to understand why people had collaborated with Bonaparte, assuming that it was to gain some advantage, whereas Ramage knew that in at least some instances it would have been from an instinct for survival.
Anyway, whatever happened and whatever the problems, it would be of no help for her to arrive back in Volterra with a foreigner for a husband. Not that the word 'foreigner' existed in the Italian language, but for a citizen of the state of Volterra a straniero, a stranger, was someone who came from somewhere else, be it Venice, England or the land of the Laps.
It was all very sad and all very interesting, and it helped to pass away the time, but it had no relevance for Lieutenant Ramage. By the time the watch in his pocket had run down, he would either have escaped or he would be dead. Curious that they had forgotten to search him. He decided that if he could not escape, the last thing he would do before they marched out of the cell to the place (call it the guillotine, he told himself; using euphemisms does not help) would be to stamp on his watch, just to avoid a gendarme stealing it from his corpse.
He was just going to sit down on the cot again when he heard the key turn and the bolts being slid back, and a moment later the door swung open and the prosecutor came in, preceded by a guard holding a pistol.
'Prisoner di Stefano . . .' Houdan paused, obviously to give the maximum effect to whatever he was going to say.
'Prisoner Houdan,' Ramage said sarcastically.
The effect on the Frenchman was remarkable. Instead of his face flushing with anger, it went pale, and the muscles pulled down the corners of his mouth. 'Why do you call me that?' he demanded tightly.
Ramage shrugged his shoulders. 'You are as much a prisoner as I...’
'Don't be absurd! Why, within four or five hours you will be marched to the guillotine!'
Ramage was surprised at the way he was able to nod so casually, as though Houdan was relaying old news. 'Yes, I go in a few hours, and you? You'll follow - in a few weeks, or a few months; even in a year or two. But you'll follow, Prisoner Houdan . . .' He was delighted at the way he had pitched his voice: no lamenting priest could have spoken more dolefully.
Certainly it was having an effect on Houdan who, instead of hitting him, whispered: 'Why do you say that?'
'The swing of the pendulum, my friend; at the moment it is swung all the way over to your side, and you and your friends just snap your fingers and send your enemies to the guillotine. But one day the pendulum will swing back the other way. All the relatives and friends of those you have murdered have been waiting patiently, and they'll snap their fingers, and then you and your friends will know what it is like to swing over on the bascule and lie there staring into the basket.'
Houdan was shaking his head, unbelievingly, and Ramage could not resist giving the knife yet another twist.
‘The crowd watching and jeering yesterday - I suppose they'll clap and cheer round the guillotine as the blade drops, too. But a crowd is fickle, Prisoner Houdan; it doesn't mind who dies, man or woman, young or old, Royalist or Republican, Breton or Burgundian. It would find it amusing to watch the prosecutor being decapitated.' The phrase in French did not have the same ring as in English, but Houdan's mouth was now hanging slack and he was obviously staring into some private hell about which he had never before dared even to think.
A full minute passed, during which time the sentry started moving uncomfortably, as though he too was considering the pendulum and his own position. Then Houdan pulled his eyes back into focus, braced his back and repeated, as though they were his first words since he came into the celclass="underline" 'Prisoner di Stefano, your appeal for clemency has been rejected!'
'You are mistaking me for someone else,' Ramage said coldly. 'I made no appeal, nor shall I.'
'An appeal is routine after the sentence of death,' Houdan said.
'And its rejection is equally routine?' Ramage inquired.
'Not necessarily. Now, I have one last question. You are not Gianfranco di Stefano. Who are you?'
'Ah - so you have found me out,' Ramage said sadly, and noted the triumphant look on Houdan's face: the Frenchman was obviously enjoying the thought of getting his revenge for all the baiting he had received.
'Who are you, then?'
'Ah,' Ramage lowered his head sorrowfully, 'the last in an ancient line; when the blade drops, a noble family vanishes, as though it never existed. A few tombstones, a mausoleum here and a palace there... a sad thought.'
'Your name,' Houdan persisted.
'The Duca di Noia.'
The Frenchman's eyes widened and then his face became animated: a Royalist! He plunged a hand into his pocket and fished out a piece of paper and pencil. 'Spell it!' he demanded. As soon as he had it written down he asked: 'Where is that?'
'Where is what?' Ramage asked innocently.
'Noia - the place of which you are the Duke. Were the Duke,' he corrected himself.
'Oh, Noia isn't a place, it is a - how should I say, the translation is a little difficult. Now, in French, it would "Le Duc d'Ennui".'
Houdan stared at him suspiciously. 'Ennui? Are you sure you have not make a mistake? Are you saying there is no such place as Noia?'
'"Noia" is an Italian word,' Ramage said patronizingly. 'It means - well, boredom, tedium ... I assure you that after a few hours locked up in a cell, anyone becomes the Duca di Noia, After a week or two in a French cell I dare say he becomes Le Grand Duc d'Ennui.'
Houdan looked at him with narrowed eyes, his face revealing hatred. 'Your execution is arranged for ten o'clock tomorrow morning.'
‘Thank you,' Ramage said. 'It's a civilized hour: I was afraid you would make it dawn.'
Houdan left the cell and the door slammed shut. Ramage sat down on the cot and felt violently sick. You needed the continued presence of someone like Houdan to play the role of the blasé cynic: the moment you were left alone it all seemed so empty and useless. But, he thought sourly, hurrah for the Duca di Noia; he made sure that long after Gianfranco di Stefano or Lieutenant Ramage had escaped or shuffled off this mortal coil, Houdan will wake up in the early hours of the morning and think of the pendulum.
It would be the devil of a gesture (one that would leave not just Houdan but the tribunal looking stupid) if just before they shoved him against the bascule, he said casually, 'By the way, I am not an Italian shipbuilder, I'm a British naval officer, and I did read that dispatch . . .' But it would be a pointless gesture; far better to let the French remain unaware that the British knew the details of their Invasion Flotilla.