“Casa Pastrini!” said the cicerone to the coachman; and the carriage drove rapidly on.
Ten minutes afterward the baron entered his apartment, and Peppino stationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, after having whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter, who immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullest speed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing his pocket-book under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he had a game of mora with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then, to console himself, drank a bottle of the wine of Orvieto.
The next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early; he had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at all. He breakfasted heartily; and caring little, as he said, for the beauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars had not reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of the posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o’clock, and the cicerone did not bring the passport till three.
All these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the door of Maitre Pastrini’s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were also not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, who, for the sake of gain, styled him “your excellency.” As Danglars had hitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather flattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen pauls among this canaille, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him “your highness.”
“Which road?” asked the postilion in Italian.
“The Aucona road,” replied the baron. Maitre Pastrini interpreted the question and answer, and the horses galloped off.
Danglars intended traveling to Venice, where he would receive one part of his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he would find the rest, he meant to take up his residence in the latter town, which he had been told was a city of pleasure.
He had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began to disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would have remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long it would be before they reach the next town. “Non capisco,” was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to imply, “Very well.” The carriage again moved on.
“I will stop at the first posting-house,” said Danglars to himself.
He still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the previous evening, and which had procured him so good a night’s rest. He was luxuriously stretched in a good English caleche, with double springs; he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the relay to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation could present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?
Danglars thought for ten minutes upon his wife in Paris; another ten minutes upon his daughter traveling about with Mademoiselle d’Armilly; the same period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which he intended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for contemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt, more violent than the rest, caused him to open his eyes; then he felt that he was still carried with vast rapidity over the same country, so thickly strewed with broken aqueducts, which look like granite giants petrified in the midst of their course. But the night was cold, dull, and rainy; and it was much more pleasant for a traveler to remain in the warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to make inquiries of a postilion, whose only answer was “Nan capisco.”