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Updated: June 28, 2025
There was a settled hardness in his face which was never again to disappear permanently. But he was horror-struck by Spicca's appearance. He had no idea that a man already so cadaverous could still change as the old man had changed. Spicca seemed little more than a grey shadow barely resting upon the white bed. He put the telegram into Orsino's hands.
As it was, he wondered what power Spicca had over her to oblige her to receive him, and he wondered in vain. The conclusion which forced itself before him was that Spicca was the person who imposed the serving woman upon Maria Consuelo. But her behaviour towards him, on the other hand, was not that of a person obliged by circumstances to submit to the caprices and dictation of another.
She was dead and he was dying. The secret was already half buried in the past. If it were told now, no one would believe it. Orsino returned on the following day. He had sent for news several times, and was told that Spicca still lingered. He saw him again but the old man seemed very weak and only spoke a few words during the hour Orsino spent with him.
When he dies, if such strength as his can yield to death, he will die the richest man in Italy, and he will leave what is rare in Italian finance, a stainless name. Of one person more I must speak, who has played a part in this family history. The melancholy Spicca still lives his lonely life in the midst of the social world. He affects to be a little old-fashioned in his dress.
She did not bend her head as she silently gave her hand. Spicca, too, seemed momentarily changed. He was as pale and thin as ever, but his face softened oddly; certain lines which contributed to his usually bitter and sceptical expression disappeared, while others became visible which changed his look completely.
You ought to tell me whether that is possible." "Possible?" cried Spicca almost angrily. "What do you mean?" "I mean this. You know us all, as you know me. You know the enormous prejudices in which we are brought up. You know perfectly well that although I am ready to laugh at some of them, there are others at which I do not laugh.
He afterwards wondered at the stupidity of his own inventions on that evening, but at the time nothing looked impossible. He bethought him of Spicca. Perhaps the old man possessed some power over his daughter after all and could prevent her flight if he chose. There were yet nearly two hours left before the train started.
In due time, Orsino appeared, looking pale and ill tempered. He caught sight of Spicca and went at once to the table where he sat. "I have had a letter," said the young man. "I must speak to you. If you do not object, we will dine together." "By all means. There is nothing like a thoroughly bad dinner to promote ill-feeling." Orsino glanced at the old man in momentary surprise.
The picnic was noisy, and Giovanni was in a bad humour; he did not care for Donna Tullia's glances, nor for the remarks she constantly levelled at him; still less was he amused by the shallow gaiety of her party of admirers, tempered as their talk was by the occasional tonic of some outrageous cynicism from the melancholy Spicca.
"If she has told you that she is my daughter," he said, "I presume that she has told you the rest. Is that true?" Orsino was impatient for Spicca to take some immediate action, but he understood that the count had a right to ask the question. "She has told me that she does not know her mother's name, and that you killed her husband." "Both these statements are perfectly true at all events.
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