Peppino
AT the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a man, traveling post on the road from Florence to Rome, had just passed the little town of Aquapendente. He was traveling fast enough to make a great deal of ground without becoming altogether suspicious. This man, dressed in a great-coat, or rather a surtout, a good deal the worse for the journey, but which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur still fresh and brilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under-coat, might be recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with which he spoke to the postilion, to be a Frenchman.
Another proof that he was a native of the country of the universal language was apparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the terms used in music, which, like the “Goddam “of Figaro, supplied all deficiences. “Allegro!” he called out to the postilions at every ascent. “Moderato!” he cried as they descended. And any one who has ever traveled that road knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by the way of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom they were addressed. In sight of the Eternal City, that is, on reaching La Stora, the point from whence Rome is first visible, the traveler evinced none of the enthusiastic curiosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to catch sight of the dome of Saint Peter’s, which may be seen long before any other object is distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocket-book from his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after having examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said:
“Good! I have it still.”
The carriage entered by the Porto del Popolo, turned to the left, and stopped at the Hotel d’Espagne. Maitre Pastrini, our old acquaintance, received the traveler at the door, hat in hand. The traveler alighted, ordered a good dinner and inquired the address of the house of the son and French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one of the most celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi, near Saint Peter’s.
In Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event. Ten young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at elbows, with one hand resting on the hip, and the other arm gracefully curved above the head, stared at the traveler, the post-chaise, and the horses; to these gamins of the city were added about fifty little vagabonds from the provinces of his holiness, who stroll about and spit into the Tiber from the bridge of San Angelo, when the Tiber has any water in it. Now, as these gamins of Rome, more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language, more especially the French, they heard the traveler order an apartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of Thomson and French.
The result was, that when the new-comer left the hotel with the cicerone, a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and, without having been seen by the traveler, and appearing to excite no attention from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a Parisian agent of police would have used.
The Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson and French that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left word for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him at the bankers’ door. He reached it before the carriage arrived.
The Frenchman entered, leaving his guide in the anteroom, who immediately entered into conversation with two or three of those industrious idlers who are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses, churches, museums, or theaters. With the Frenchman, the man who had followed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and entered the first room; his shadow did the same.