much, sir. Sees through a millstone, Mr. Kestrel does.
And in h'ltaly, them as lives longest is them as sees nothing at
all."
The
door from the hallway into the adjacent parlour opened and closed.
Dipper at once discovered an infinitesimal crease in one of the neck
cloths and bent over it with a small, slender iron he had left
warming on the hob. MacGregor clasped his hands behind him and
rocked back and forth self-consciously on his heels.
Kestrel
came in. "I can see my ears ought to have been burning."
He added, looking critically from one to the other, "In fact,
it's a wonder my hat wasn't set on fire."
Dipper
removed Kestrel's wet coat and helped him into his dressing gown Then
Kestrel and MacGregor went into the parlour. Kestrel smiled wryly
and lifted his brows, obviously expecting to be read a lecture.
MacGregor knew he would listen pleasantly, parry MacGregor's
arguments with charm and wit, and then do exactly as he pleased. For
all his courtesy and tact, Kestrel could be as stubborn as well, as
MacGregor himself.
"I
suppose you've considered," MacGregor said at last, "that
any trouble you get into in Milan is bound to involve him, too?"
He jerked his head toward the room where Dipper was still packing.
"Yes."
Kestrel looked grave at that. "But what can I do? I can't
tell him he needn't come with me if he'd rather not. The least one
can do in return for loyalty like his is not insult it."
MacGregor
sighed, acknowledging the truth of this. "Will you do one thing
for me?"
"If
I can," said Kestrel, a touch guardedly.
"Lay
hand on heart, and ask yourself if this Italian venture of yours is
worth the risk. Maybe these fears of Dipper's are all fustian I
don't know. But I do know that, if my son had lived, he'd have been
about your age. And I'd like to think, when we go our separate ways
tomorrow, that I'll see you again."
For
once Kestrel seemed at a loss for words. MacGregor wanted to press
his advantage: Come home with me or at least go somewhere, anywhere,
other than Milan. But if Kestrel acceded, he would always regret it.
He had called this the investigation of a lifetime wouldn't he always
wonder what it would have been like? What right had MacGregor to
deprive him of his adventure? One of them ought not to turn back.
So MacGregor said nothing. And the next day Kestrel and Dipper set
out for Milan.
The
Simplon Highway, running from Paris to Milan by way of Geneva and the
Alps, was perhaps the greatest gift Napoleon had bequeathed to Italy.
For some fifteen years, the northern Italian states had been united
under his rule, and Milan had been the Italian Paris the dashing and
elegant capital of Napoleon's Kingdom of Italy. That kingdom had
fallen a dozen years ago, and the Austrians, who had held Milan
before the French came, made haste to reclaim it. Nowadays, to speak
well of the Kingdom of Italy was treasonous in Milan; to fly its red,
white, and green tricolour was to invite arrest. Napoleon, though
dead, was still a threat to Italy's overlords. To be sure, he had
been a conqueror, who had kindled dreams of liberty in the Italians
only to beguile them into servitude to another master. But the fact
remained that, for the first time since ancient Rome, much of Italy
had been united. The King of Italy might have been a French despot,
but the Kingdom of Italy was now a living ideal for many Italians.
And
the Simplon Highway remained. Skirting Lake Geneva, a great flat
sheet of water dotted with dipping gulls, it passed through a plain
rich in orchards, vineyards, and flocks of black-headed sheep. The
faraway mountains on either side of the road were featureless just
mammoth shapes of a colour neither grey nor purple nor blue. But on
the third day of Julian's journey, the sky cleared, and the mountains
began to close in. The road twisted and ascended; the horses
laboured harder and rested more frequently. Julian laid aside his
Milanese dictionary to watch the Alps rise up around him: their
And in h'ltaly, them as lives longest is them as sees nothing at
all."
The
door from the hallway into the adjacent parlour opened and closed.
Dipper at once discovered an infinitesimal crease in one of the neck
cloths and bent over it with a small, slender iron he had left
warming on the hob. MacGregor clasped his hands behind him and
rocked back and forth self-consciously on his heels.
Kestrel
came in. "I can see my ears ought to have been burning."
He added, looking critically from one to the other, "In fact,
it's a wonder my hat wasn't set on fire."
Dipper
removed Kestrel's wet coat and helped him into his dressing gown Then
Kestrel and MacGregor went into the parlour. Kestrel smiled wryly
and lifted his brows, obviously expecting to be read a lecture.
MacGregor knew he would listen pleasantly, parry MacGregor's
arguments with charm and wit, and then do exactly as he pleased. For
all his courtesy and tact, Kestrel could be as stubborn as well, as
MacGregor himself.
"I
suppose you've considered," MacGregor said at last, "that
any trouble you get into in Milan is bound to involve him, too?"
He jerked his head toward the room where Dipper was still packing.
"Yes."
Kestrel looked grave at that. "But what can I do? I can't
tell him he needn't come with me if he'd rather not. The least one
can do in return for loyalty like his is not insult it."
MacGregor
sighed, acknowledging the truth of this. "Will you do one thing
for me?"
"If
I can," said Kestrel, a touch guardedly.
"Lay
hand on heart, and ask yourself if this Italian venture of yours is
worth the risk. Maybe these fears of Dipper's are all fustian I
don't know. But I do know that, if my son had lived, he'd have been
about your age. And I'd like to think, when we go our separate ways
tomorrow, that I'll see you again."
For
once Kestrel seemed at a loss for words. MacGregor wanted to press
his advantage: Come home with me or at least go somewhere, anywhere,
other than Milan. But if Kestrel acceded, he would always regret it.
He had called this the investigation of a lifetime wouldn't he always
wonder what it would have been like? What right had MacGregor to
deprive him of his adventure? One of them ought not to turn back.
So MacGregor said nothing. And the next day Kestrel and Dipper set
out for Milan.
The
Simplon Highway, running from Paris to Milan by way of Geneva and the
Alps, was perhaps the greatest gift Napoleon had bequeathed to Italy.
For some fifteen years, the northern Italian states had been united
under his rule, and Milan had been the Italian Paris the dashing and
elegant capital of Napoleon's Kingdom of Italy. That kingdom had
fallen a dozen years ago, and the Austrians, who had held Milan
before the French came, made haste to reclaim it. Nowadays, to speak
well of the Kingdom of Italy was treasonous in Milan; to fly its red,
white, and green tricolour was to invite arrest. Napoleon, though
dead, was still a threat to Italy's overlords. To be sure, he had
been a conqueror, who had kindled dreams of liberty in the Italians
only to beguile them into servitude to another master. But the fact
remained that, for the first time since ancient Rome, much of Italy
had been united. The King of Italy might have been a French despot,
but the Kingdom of Italy was now a living ideal for many Italians.
And
the Simplon Highway remained. Skirting Lake Geneva, a great flat
sheet of water dotted with dipping gulls, it passed through a plain
rich in orchards, vineyards, and flocks of black-headed sheep. The
faraway mountains on either side of the road were featureless just
mammoth shapes of a colour neither grey nor purple nor blue. But on
the third day of Julian's journey, the sky cleared, and the mountains
began to close in. The road twisted and ascended; the horses
laboured harder and rested more frequently. Julian laid aside his
Milanese dictionary to watch the Alps rise up around him: their
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