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Updated: May 16, 2025
On their arrival at the latter city they proceeded immediately to the harbor, where Monte-Cristo's yacht awaited them in obedience to instructions telegraphed by the Count to the Captain of the craft, whose name was Vincenzo, and who was a son of Jacopo, the former smuggler, long in command of the ill-fated Alcyon, lost in the frightful storm and volcanic disturbance in the Mediterranean some years before.
He was always there, sitting by the door, and when he was called he came running to his master's bedside. "Where is she? Don't let her be drowned! Don't let the octopi get her! Vincenzo! Vincenzo!" he cried, and the good fellow tried to reassure him. "Sia benedetto, signorino! They shall not have her. I will cut them in pieces with my knife." "What is the matter? I am quite well.
To-night that same big Nicolo is drinking Chianti with that same brother, and both shouted after me as I passed, 'Hola! Vincenzo Flamma! all is well between us because it is the blessed Christ's birthday." Vincenzo stopped and regarded me wistfully. "Well!" I said, calmly, "what has the big Nicolo or his brother to do with me?"
The longing to see Olive, to hold her once more in his arms, burned within him. He moved restlessly and laid his clenched hands together on the half-healed wound in his side. One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a child sleeps, and woke at dawn. He raised himself on his elbow in the bed and looked about him, and Vincenzo came to him at once and asked him what he wanted.
Someone passing by must have seen it and taken it, probably someone with a cart, as it would be heavy to carry. The thief could not have gone far, and Vincenzo thought that if he drove the car towards Castel Gandolfo he might catch him, whoever he was charcoal-burner from the woods beyond Rocca di Papa, peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine, or perhaps a frate from the convent.
Visitors come and go freely Messer Jacopo of Ferrara, the architect who was "dear to Leonardo as a brother," the courtly poet Gaspare Visconti, and Vincenzo Calmeta, Duchess Beatrice's secretary, or, it may be, the great Messer Galeaz himself, whose big jennet and Sicilian horse the master has been drawing as models for the great equestrian statue standing outside in the Corte Vecchia.
Bang! went a pistol, and another. The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as a cigar-box. "What's the matter?" I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me. "They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed. Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back, if you don't want to appear in this." A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go.
True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and I strive always to forget! I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for dinner, an unusual circumstance, which had caused Vincenzo some disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face when I entered.
"Can they hear us?" whispered Luigi in an awe-struck whisper. Craig laughed. "No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other switch, and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous writing on Belshazzar's wall only it would be a voice from the wall instead of writing." "They seem to be waiting for someone," said Vincenzo.
The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks. "Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo," she said, demurely, with downcast eyes; "he is what we call buon' amico, yes, indeed! But he is often glad when I make coffee for him also; he likes it so much! He says I do it so well! But perhaps the eccellenza will prefer Vincenzo?" I laughed.
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