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There was more of living humanity in the fast fainting echo of Bosio's last words to her than in Gianluca's clear, sweet tones.
She made no noise as she traversed the dim rooms, in her felt slippers; but she avoided the yellow drawing-room and passed through a passage behind it. Her nerves were singularly good, but since Bosio's death she did not like to be alone in that room at night.
Veronica did not perhaps acknowledge that, little by little, Gianluca's letters were beginning to fill the place of poor Bosio's conversation in former times. But that was what was taking place.
Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproar and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death. Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once.
On that morning, after eleven o'clock, Matilde came to Veronica's room, bringing a piece of needlework with her, and she sat down to stay a while. They talked idly about dull subjects, and from time to time Matilde looked up and smiled sadly. She sat so that she could not see Bosio's photograph on the mantelpiece. After she had been there half an hour, she started, suddenly remembering something.
But the latter, owing to the time required for the legal formalities, had not been able to get possession of the money before he became insane, and was placed in an asylum at Aversa, where he was probably to remain until he died. Bosio's little fortune remained intact, and the use of it reverted to Matilde Macomer. Veronica paid Gregorio's expenses at the asylum.
"He says he is the Reverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency's church in Muro, and begs you earnestly to receive him." Veronica rose again. She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had often spoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend. It was for Bosio's sake that he had come that was clear.
"There is one other way," said the priest, thoughtfully. "There is one thing left for you to do, if you have courage to do it. And you know better than I what chance there would be of success. It is what I should do myself. It is a heroic remedy, but it may save everything yet." Bosio's eyes turned anxiously to his friend, by way of question. "Find Veronica alone," said Don Teodoro.
Not much had been needed to break through the barrier of Bosio's reticence. Walking through the streets that morning he had for a moment even thought of telling some of his story to Taquisara. It was far easier to tell it to the only true friend he had in the world, to one in whom he had confided as a boy and had trusted as a young man. He told almost all.
For the present, the fathers and mothers of marriageable sons were waiting until three or four months should have elapsed, for they generally guessed that there had been a catastrophe of some sort at the Palazzo Macomer after Bosio's death; and, moreover, as has been seen, it was impossible to ascertain the proper person to whom to address any such proposal.
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