Free The Viceroys by Federico De Roberto Page B

very lively. Had her confessor, that Father Camillo, not spoken? ‘He’s not here, he’s been in Rome for some months, and even if he were, he wouldn’t talk. He’s far too clever …’ And all eyes naturally turned to Giacomo and Raimondo. The latter was still chatting to Donna Isabella, and his mother’s will seemed the very last thing in his thoughts; indeed he might never have heard of his mother’s death. The prince, on the other hand, had a graver air than usual, as suitable to the melancholy of those days. He was receiving with expressions of gratitude the reiterated condolences of those leaving. Some of these, however, could not succeed in finding him, and went off unable to bid farewell, and familiars gave each other understanding looks out of the corners of their eyes. He was terrified of the Evil Eye, and attributed that dreadful power to a great number of individuals. In their presence he was in tortures, and avoided greeting them by keeping his hands in his pockets.
    But the President of the High Court, as he got to his feet, found the prince beside him.
    ‘If my uncle comes tomorrow, President, shall we fix the reading for the day after?’
    ‘Whenever you think fit, Prince! I am at your disposal!’
    ‘In truth …’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘I would not wish it to be so hurried … in fact it seems to show a lack of proper respect for our mother’s memory … But you know what happens when so many people have to be taken into consideration …’ and as his brother the Prior was also leaving with the Bishop, he warned them both, Monsignor being another witness.
    ‘Do arrange things as you like …’ said the Prior without interest. ‘What need have you of me?’
    But Giacomo protested:
    ‘No, no, not at all! Things must be done properly, to everyone’s satisfaction …’
    As it was getting dark, many were leaving. Father Gerbini, although the Prior had given the example, stayed a little longer, chatting to the ladies, then he went off too. There remained, inveighing against the revolutionaries and his dead sister-in-law,Don Blasco, always the last to re-enter the monastery.
    Now servants were lighting the lamps, and with the windows shut, the heat in the room was getting intolerable. The Countess Matilde felt herself on the point of swooning, and had lost sight of her husband, who had followed Donna Isabella into the Red Drawing-room, and was now discoursing about Paris. Once again she found herself beside her uncle Eugenio and Don Cono, who were still disembowelling the old city chronicles and quoting flowery Latin.
    ‘The funeral rites for Charles V took place in the presence of the Viceroy Uzeda …’
    ‘The royal chapel was set up in our cathedral, where was erected a high pyramid ornamented with busts and allegorical figures, among which those of Italy, Spain, Germany and India …’
    ‘Exactly, and the epigraph went like this:
    India moesta sedet Caroli post funera Quinti
 …’
    ‘And what about the opening of the favourite horse’s veins?’
    ‘For our grandfather’s funeral, the very last time! When the prince our grandfather died, his saddle-horse had a vein cut …’
    ‘A barbaric custom, surely. The noble steed spattering the street with blood till it fell and breathed its last …’
    Suddenly Don Cono exclaimed:
    ‘Countess, great God!’
    All rushed to her. She was pale and cold, her eyes turned up and her lips parted. Her husband, hurrying in with Donna Isabella, said:
    ‘It’s nothing … just tiredness from the journey …’ And in a low voice, almost to himself, as they carried her away, ‘The usual nonsense!…’
    What days of constant novelty those were! Next day, as expected, the duke arrived. He had been away for five years, and at first the servants and even relatives scarcely recognised him. When he had left Palermo he had a fine wreath of whiskers in the Bourbon style, but now he had grown a small pointed beard, which gave