Free The Viceroys by Federico De Roberto Page A

meeting you,’ she went on in another tone and squeezing his hand, ‘in these sad circumstances …’ She sighed a little, then began again:
    ‘The countess was just telling me that you’ve come from Florence …’
    ‘Directly. We scarcely stopped at Messina …’
    ‘To leave the child with your father-in-law. You were quite right! What is this place Milazzo like?’
    ‘Don’t talk of it.’
    Luckily, he went on, he was there as little as possible, being always drawn to Florence where he had so many friends. As he quoted the great names of Tuscany, Donna Isabella repeatedly nodded approval. ‘The Morsini, of course … the Realmonte …’
    The countess was giving her husband begging looks, almost as if saying ‘Take me away …’ but Raimondo never stopped talking of his favourite theme. Fersa came up to him a moment to shake his hand and express his own regret.
    ‘Is your uncle the duke arriving tomorrow?’
    ‘So Giacomo told me.’
    ‘What about the Will?’
    ‘Nothing is known yet.’
    Amid the talk of politics, fashions and travel, that question, murmured curiously here and there, always obtained the same reply. The President of the High Court, witness of the handing over of the secret Will made by the princess to the notary the year before, knew nothing about the contents of the document whose envelope he had signed, and the dead woman’s children were even more in the dark than strangers. Perhaps, had Raimondo come in time, when his mother had called him soinsistently, he might have been told something, but the count, amusing himself in Florence, had turned a deaf ear, as if they were not his own interests involved. Was it possible, then, that the princess had confided in no one at all? In none of her brothers-in-law? In some man of business at least? Suddenly Don Blasco, leaving Cavour and Russia in peace, exclaimed:
    ‘Well, why didn’t she? It’s what anyone who reasons would do … But logic’s different in this family!… No one must know a thing! All must be done according to
their
whims; always
hidden
, always
mysterious
, as if they were
forging
the money!’
    The President gave an amiable nod to quieten the fiery monk, but the latter went on:
    ‘D’you want to know what the Will says? Ask her confessor! Yes, sir, her confessor!… You talk to your confessor about sin, don’t you? About matters of conscience?… Business, of course, you leave to lawyers and notaries and relations, don’t you?… But here, on the other hand, it’s the confessor who wrote the Will. Maybe the notary imparts Absolution?’
    Some smiled at this sally, and suppositions had free rein. The President was sure, whatever was said to the contrary, that the heir would be the prince, with a big legacy to the count, and the General confirmed, ‘Of course, the heir to the name!’ But the Baron Grazzeri shook his head, ‘They never got on, did they?’ Don Mario Fersa was whispering his opinion to the Cavaliere Carvano, according to which the heir would be Raimondo. Perhaps the latter’s behaviour during his mother’s illness, his constant refusal to come and see her, might have done him a little harm, but the princess’s predilection for that son had been too great for its effects all to be scattered in a moment. ‘Don’t let us forget,’ commented the Cavaliere Pezzino, ‘that the poor lady, may she rest in peace, always refused to ask for the Right of Primogeniture, so as to be free to do what she liked.’ Would such an enormity be seen as the head of the family disinherited? Raimondo, who had no son, made heir? The prince, who already had a successor in little Consalvo, disinherited?… The family courtiers, as being in the dead woman’s confidence, were asked for their opinions, but these who knew less than others replied evasively so as not to disagree with anyone.
    ‘What about the other sons? Ferdinando? The women?…’ Curiosity, though contained and expressed in whispers, was