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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Purified...." Henry recollected that Dr. Franchi was a modernist and a heretic. "A queer word," he mused. "I am not sure that I know what it means." "Ah. You are orthodox Catholic, no doubt. You admit no possible impurities in the faith." "I have never thought about it. I do not even know what an impurity is. One thing does not seem to me much more pure than another, and not much more odd.
Miss Longfellow did not answer his inquiry, but stood in the hall and cried, "Zio!" in a voice like a May cuckoo's. A door opened, and in a moment Dr. Franchi, small and frail and charming, came forward with a sweet smile and hand outstretched, through a throng of fawning, grinning dogs. "A pleasure indeed, Mr. Beechtree." "He is like Leo XIII.," was Henry's thought.
There were, perhaps, one hundred and twenty houses in Sullacro for me to choose from, so after looking out carefully for the one that promised the most comfort, I decided in favour of a strong, fortified, squarely-built house. "Certainly," said my guide. "That is the house of Madame Savilia de Franchi. Your honour has chosen wisely."
But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm? Now the Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca, to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis. "How that young fellow does push himself!" observes the cynical Franchi. "Dancing with the Amici such a great lady!
Nine people had already been killed in this feud, and now Lucien, as arbitrator, was to bring it to an end. The local prefect had written to Paris that one word from De Franchi would end the dispute, and Louis had appealed to him. To-night Lucien was to arrange matters with Orlandi, as he had already done with Colona, and the meeting-place was at the ruins of the Castle of Vicentello d'Istria.
Wickham Steed used to feel of those who asked the Bolsheviks to lunch at Genoa in April, 1922, Henry now felt of Charles Wilbraham, only more so. God, what a lunch party! "You know our friend Mr. Wilbraham, I expect," said Dr. Franchi. "Scarcely," said Henry. "He wouldn't know me." "A very efficient young man. He has that air." "He has. But not really very clever, you know.
Wouldn't he be dismissed, kicked out as incompetent as unscrupulous, I mean," Henry amended quickly. His voice had risen in a shrill and trembling crescendo of dislike. Dr. Franchi, leaning placidly back in his chair, his delicate fingers stroking a large Persian cat on his knee, shrewdly watched him.
Franchi is in the Keep Wing, dining with the delegates," Signor Cristofero informed his companions. "This man will conduct us there and admit us. He has the pass keys." The party, led by the scowling Baptist, trooped into the château like a party of eager tourists ciceroned by a sulky guide.
Who's to lead?" "Oh! Baldassare, of course," replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost all his color. "Nobody else would take the trouble. Who is he to dance with?" "Let him see who will have him. I shall not interfere. He'll dance for both, anyhow," answered Orsetti, laughing. "No one competes with Adonis." "Where is he?"
He will, no doubt, take steps to have me excluded from the Press Gallery as a disreputable character. I don't particularly mind. What I do mind is that it isn't Wilbraham who's going to get run in for this business, but poor old Franchi. I like Franchi. He's delightful, however many delegates he's kidnapped." "Oh, the more the better. A jolly old sportsman. My word, what a brain!
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