ertain doctor there was
one in which the name of Don Franco Maironi was mentioned, with
particulars of a compromising nature. Dina added that at a moment of
such great anguish for a father, he would refrain from going into an
explanation of Count Cavour's interest in him; suffice it to say that he
himself had mentioned Franco to the Count, who had expressed his regret
that a Lombard gentleman, bearing such a distinguished name, should be
obliged to live in such straitened and obscure circumstances in Turin.
Dina believed it was his intention to offer him a position in the
Foreign Office. Now, of course, Franco must go. But the little girl
would recover and he must return as soon as possible. Meanwhile he would
stop at Lugano, would he not? He must, at least, await news there, and
unless it became absolutely necessary, he must not venture into
Lombardy. After this affair at Vall' Intelvi it would be extremely
imprudent. As Franco remained silent, the director once more broached
the subject before bidding him good-bye. "Be prudent! Don't let them
take you!" But Franco would not answer.

Ever since the receipt of the telegram Franco had walked the streets of
Turin like one in a dream, deaf to the noise of his own footsteps,
unconscious of what he saw, of what he heard, going mechanically
wherever it was necessary for him to go at this juncture, wherever a
certain servile and lower faculty of the soul might lead him, that
faculty composed of reason and of instinct, which is capable of guiding
us through a labyrinth of city streets, while the mind, concentrated
upon some problem, some passion, takes no heed of our movements. He sold
his watch and chain to a watchmaker of Doragrossa for one hundred and
thirty-five lire, purchased a doll for Maria, stopped at Cafe Alfieri
and Cafe Florio to leave word for his friends, and was at the station by
eleven o'clock, although the train for Novara which he was to take did
not start until half-past eleven. At a quarter-past the Paduan and the
young man from Udine appeared. They endeavoured to encourage him with
all sorts of rosy suppositions and unconvincing arguments, but he
answered never a word and only longed intensely for the moment of
departure, longed to be alone, to be hastening towards Oria, for he was
determined to go to Oria, no matter how great the danger might be. He
entered a third-class carriage, and when the locomotive whistled and the
train began to move, he heaved a gr