Читать книгу No Way Home - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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Florio San Quirico, travelling under the name of Signor Miola, ascended the beautiful heights of the Kniebis in his own light carriage that he had brought with him from Italy. Bonino drove the hired horse, the best the post could offer, that took the steep incline without difficulty, while the heavier vehicles were obliged to have extra horses or oxen for the three hours climb. The traveller enjoyed the fair country, rich and lavish in the evening light, the wild hollows overhung by gigantic rocks, the stern round capped towers of feudal castles overhanging deep defiles. The windings of the valleys, the lovely forests in full foliage, showed in an extensive vista as the road rose to the summit of the Kniebis. The glowing lustre of the scene gave a purple bloom to the mountains, the vineyards in the valleys, the fading azure of the heaven.

The Bolognese was not, as was the English traveller, obsessed by an overmastering desire or emotion, though he also was on a quest it was one in which his mind, as well as his heart was concerned. For, more intelligent than Mr. Campion, his passions were more refined, more under control, and a considerable melancholy pervaded his nature. What he was doing was deliberate, well planned and carefully executed. It was, he knew, something in the nature of an indulged whim, an allowed fantasy. It had begun, possibly in boredom; it had more to do with sentiment than passion. He had no sleepless nights, no tormenting dreams, and he was sufficiently detached to be able to relish the incidents of his luxurious travelling.

The clumsy devices of the fugitives had never for long delayed him. Without the assistance that Mr. Campion employed, he, with the expert aid of his servant, had followed, a stage or so behind, easily, the couple whom he pursued. It had not taken him long to discover that a strange lady, supposed, in Stuttgart gossip, to be a member of the French Royal House, had taken the long deserted hunting box near Rippoldsau, once the property of the Grand Duke of Baden, and situated in a garden termed Solitude.

Bonino had been to Dinkelsbuhl and brought back reports; his master had acted on them, but at leisure, with none of the ruthless haste with which the Englishman hastened upon pursuit.

Signor Miola wondered now, searching his own heart, how much there was of caprice in this absenting of himself from his home, the duties of his station, the elaborate structure of his life, so well filled with intelligent activities. A shade of sadness came over his long, smooth comely face, as he watched the light withdraw from the landscape and the sky. He felt pity for the Englishman, respected him and wished him well out of his dreadful trouble—yet death alone would end that tragedy.

The well kept road turned sharply to the south and Bonino, skilful at all he undertook, drove cleverly down the steep descent that led to the lonely, little-known valley of the Schappach, deep in the wildness of the forest. As the little carriage proceeded along the level road the thickly set trees shut out all sun, almost all light, from Florio San Quirico. He felt as enclosed as if he drove between high green walls.

The carriage drove past a Gothic church at which Florio San Quirico glanced with pleasure. His taste was gratified by these South German churches with the windows painted in yellow and blue, the stone pulpits with lime-wood canopies, the shrines with the black figure in the tinselled robes, sparkling with sequins and tinsel, with gems and gold, the offerings of rich pilgrims, glittering in starry crowns, and the votive tablets depicting frightful disasters by land and sea. Such churches had, to the polished Italian, a childlike candour, even a crudity, that was agreeable after the elegance of his native edifices, cunning designs in light and space.

He had seen the pilgrim churches on mountains with the winding avenues of chapels approaching them, and been moved by a faint, surprised reverence for what he had been led to believe were merely a dull superstition. He had watched the pilgrims, headed by priests, setting out from a humble village and had heard their rude, earnest hymns with more respect than he had listened to the brilliant music performed so beautifully in San Petronio.

Not himself romantic, Florio San Quirico liked to encourage the romantic mood to which he was as sensitive as he was to every gracious aspect of human nature, and he indulged this now as the carriage drew up before the most modest and obscure of the Brunnen of the Forest, Rippoldsau.

The establishment, the former hunting lodge of the Grand Duke of Baden, was a severe building, surrounded by a number of what appeared to be summer houses, but which in fact sheltered the fine cold mineral springs that the Badhaus offered to those in search of cures for skin diseases. The place appeared deserted, though the windows were open; in their shining panes the last light of the sun glinted red. At the sound of the carriage a dog barked and a man in a plain livery came round the side of the house, followed by an ostler.

Florio San Quirico savoured the prospect. He was skilful with the pencil, as he was skilful with the lute, and the scene pleased him in its lonely and melancholy beauty. The silent grey house, the gleaming windows, the background of huge oaks and massive pines dark against a paling sky, the two men advancing, almost doubtfully, as if they were surprised to see strangers, composed a picture that the young Bolognese could rapidly have touched into his sketch book.

He was amused to realize that he could be thus easily distracted from what he had tried to believe was an imperious purpose. Tried? Was that the key note of the episode? Was he forcing himself to a quest that had no true zest in it?

He sighed lightly and descended from the carriage.

"Are there rooms to be had for myself and my servants?" he asked with that agreeable courtesy that made him acceptable everywhere, yet left no doubt of his quality. The attendant of the Badhaus answered, yes, indeed; this place was little known, though the proprietor had made great improvements in it and the cold springs were excellent, but the season was nearly over.

"I do not suffer from any ill that you can cure," smiled Florio San Quirico. "I would like to repose here for a short while."

Bonino unstrapped the valise, and the ostler took the reins. The landlord appeared in the doorway to welcome this unexpected visitor to his establishment.