Prince Mino’s order. Everything Taddeo Credi ever had has always been at Prince Mino’s orders. Even his beautiful daughter, Rossana.”
The bitterness in his voice shocked me. Could this boy have loved a girl the prince had taken from him? No, surely not; he was too young. I said, “That sounds like the old stories of le droit du seigneur.”
He laughed shortly. “Noblemen never needed le droit. Peasant girls have very little. When offered pretty presents, they do not run fast. Or far.” He brooded a moment. “Fear too. You rich Americans, you do not know how fear feels. Even when your George Dennis came here, less than a hundred years ago, to write about things Etruscan, there were still nobles who had power of life and death over the peasants. Yes, the power to kill.”
Startled, I said the first thing that came into my head. “But George Dennis wasn’t American. He was English.”
“What difference? Save that you Americans are even richer.”
Everything I said seemed to stir up a hornet’s nest. I made one more effort to change the subject. “What did become of Prince Mino? Is he dead, or still in the sanitarium?”
Floriano’s fork dropped. “Why do you ask? You have just been with the professor and Signora Harris; they must know.”
“I wasn’t with them long, and I’d barely heard of him then. I never thought of asking.”
“He must be dead by now.” His voice was rough. “He must be! He is sad, a weak old man who has lost everything he ever cared for.”
I said, surprising myself, “Then he couldn’t have hidden in our car yesterday. He wouldn’t have been agile enough.”
It was like a door opening in my mind, a door that I had trying to keep shut. I suddenly knew what I had been afraid of, whom I had been afraid of, all along. I found myself telling Floriano all about the escaped prisoner, about my own fantastic fear that the fugitive might have left Volterra in our car, Richard’s and mine.
“It was silly, of course,” I ended. “Anybody would have been frightfully uncomfortable, curled up in our car trunk. But last night, in the dark, I couldn’t keep from thinking about it.” I laughed, expecting him to laugh too.
But his face was troubled. “He could have been moved to the asylum. The Carenni estate may be gone; the war ruined many—even of the rich. And I heard that tumult in Volterra; it was great enough to have covered the escape of many men. It might have given a man the idea of escaping. And if he were free, he could come here. Nothing—no one—ever could stop him.”
I felt my skin creep. “Then you think it might have been the prince, after all—?”
His brilliant smile flashed again, enveloping me like the warmth of an embrace. “Not if he had to travel in the trunk of your car. We talk folly, signora. He is an old man, and feeble, if he lives. Broken, as he deserves to be. Whoever is with us in this house tonight, it is not he.”
The last words evoked a faceless image that chilled me. I said, “If somebody is here, it might be better if it were the prince. Somebody...not strong.”
“Have no fear, signora. I am strong. I will protect you.” His hand shot across the table and touched mine; I was still tingling from that brief, somehow intimate touch when he said, sobering swiftly, “But madmen are dangerous at any age. Do not wish for the company of one.”
“You think Prince Mino really was mad?”
“Always. He was also a murderer. No doubt your husband and his friends did not tell you that; these scholars shield one another. But a young Englishman called Carstairs sought refuge here during the war. He entered the villa and was never seen again.”
“I’ve heard about that. But I thought nobody was sure he came.”
“Allied searchers found a gold pen in the cellars, signora. His name was on it. And tonight I found this.”
He drew a small, stained leather notebook from his pocket. “Look at this. It must have been his. The writing is in
The bitterness in his voice shocked me. Could this boy have loved a girl the prince had taken from him? No, surely not; he was too young. I said, “That sounds like the old stories of le droit du seigneur.”
He laughed shortly. “Noblemen never needed le droit. Peasant girls have very little. When offered pretty presents, they do not run fast. Or far.” He brooded a moment. “Fear too. You rich Americans, you do not know how fear feels. Even when your George Dennis came here, less than a hundred years ago, to write about things Etruscan, there were still nobles who had power of life and death over the peasants. Yes, the power to kill.”
Startled, I said the first thing that came into my head. “But George Dennis wasn’t American. He was English.”
“What difference? Save that you Americans are even richer.”
Everything I said seemed to stir up a hornet’s nest. I made one more effort to change the subject. “What did become of Prince Mino? Is he dead, or still in the sanitarium?”
Floriano’s fork dropped. “Why do you ask? You have just been with the professor and Signora Harris; they must know.”
“I wasn’t with them long, and I’d barely heard of him then. I never thought of asking.”
“He must be dead by now.” His voice was rough. “He must be! He is sad, a weak old man who has lost everything he ever cared for.”
I said, surprising myself, “Then he couldn’t have hidden in our car yesterday. He wouldn’t have been agile enough.”
It was like a door opening in my mind, a door that I had trying to keep shut. I suddenly knew what I had been afraid of, whom I had been afraid of, all along. I found myself telling Floriano all about the escaped prisoner, about my own fantastic fear that the fugitive might have left Volterra in our car, Richard’s and mine.
“It was silly, of course,” I ended. “Anybody would have been frightfully uncomfortable, curled up in our car trunk. But last night, in the dark, I couldn’t keep from thinking about it.” I laughed, expecting him to laugh too.
But his face was troubled. “He could have been moved to the asylum. The Carenni estate may be gone; the war ruined many—even of the rich. And I heard that tumult in Volterra; it was great enough to have covered the escape of many men. It might have given a man the idea of escaping. And if he were free, he could come here. Nothing—no one—ever could stop him.”
I felt my skin creep. “Then you think it might have been the prince, after all—?”
His brilliant smile flashed again, enveloping me like the warmth of an embrace. “Not if he had to travel in the trunk of your car. We talk folly, signora. He is an old man, and feeble, if he lives. Broken, as he deserves to be. Whoever is with us in this house tonight, it is not he.”
The last words evoked a faceless image that chilled me. I said, “If somebody is here, it might be better if it were the prince. Somebody...not strong.”
“Have no fear, signora. I am strong. I will protect you.” His hand shot across the table and touched mine; I was still tingling from that brief, somehow intimate touch when he said, sobering swiftly, “But madmen are dangerous at any age. Do not wish for the company of one.”
“You think Prince Mino really was mad?”
“Always. He was also a murderer. No doubt your husband and his friends did not tell you that; these scholars shield one another. But a young Englishman called Carstairs sought refuge here during the war. He entered the villa and was never seen again.”
“I’ve heard about that. But I thought nobody was sure he came.”
“Allied searchers found a gold pen in the cellars, signora. His name was on it. And tonight I found this.”
He drew a small, stained leather notebook from his pocket. “Look at this. It must have been his. The writing is in
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