I did so with gentle footsteps, and he pointed to a bed in the corner of the room, on which was the figure of a woman, lying so still and motionless, that she might have been an image of wax. Her plentiful brown hair was spread over the pillow, and out of this frame, the pinched white face, with all its traces of past beauty, looked out in a pitiful silence. One thin hand was turned palm downwards on the coverlet, and, as we stood, the fingers began to work convulsively.
Corte bent over her forehead and touched it with his lips. "Little one," he said, "do you sleep?"
The girl opened her sightless eyes, and a faint smile, that lightened her face, making it wondrous beautiful, passed over her countenance.
"Not yet." She spoke so low I could hardly catch the words, "but I shall sleep soon."
I knew what she meant, for in her face was already that look which comes to those who are going away. Corte was however unable to judge. "She is better," he said, "I will give her some more wine--all that she needs is strength--my little one." With this he turned to a cupboard, and opening it, took thenceforth a bottle of wine; with shaking fingers he tried to fill a glass; but the bottle was empty.
"I forgot," he said, and looked hopelessly around him. There was that in the man's face which made me read it as an open book.
"Stay here," I whispered, "I will be back soon--very soon."
He looked at me in a dazed sort of manner, but I waited for no reply, and, slipping out of the room, ran as fast as I could downstairs, and through the darkening streets to the nearest inn. Calling the landlord I asked him what was his best wine.
"My best wine, signore! All my wines are good. There is Chianti from our own Tuscan grape, Lacryma Christi from Naples, Barolo from Piedmont, Roman Orvieto and White Vernaccia of the same brand that the Cardinal Ippolite d'Este----"
"Fool," I interrupted, "answer my question. What is your best wine? Have you any of the wines of France?"
"Wines of France!" he exclaimed, "_Corpo di Bacco!_ Does not your excellency know that La Palisse and his French cut-throats have been here for a month? Think you there is a bottle of red Roussilon or Armagnac left in Florence? There lie, however, in my cellar, two flagons of Burgundy."