In The Face Of Death (43 page)

Marcantonio has given notice; he has been offered employment in San Donato Milanese, where he could be with his sister’s family and his children. I will miss him, but undoubtedly it is wiser for him to go. I will see that he is provided with a generous
doucement
when he goes, which will be at the end of the year. . . . I am now faced with the prospect of replacing him, and not just as a man-of-all-work. It will not be an easy thing to do, but I must make an effort. . . .

Professor Zanetto has at last abandoned his ludicrous pursuit of me and has, instead, developed what he calls a pure passion for the wife of Professor Aurelio Cancelli. . . . It had best remain pure, for Professor Cancelli is a big man with a short temper. . . .

Signora Chiodo visited me today and asked if I would be willing to speak to the girls at her school. . . . She is mistress of a well-thought-of institution that attempts to teach her pupils more than the right way to fold napkins and the correct honorific of diplomats in French . . . and since I have made my way in the world as a recognized scholar, she hopes I might instill in some of the young ladies in her charge a sense of adventure and the worth of learning. . . . How could I refuse her? I have said I will address her students early next month. . . .

At the end of her talk, Madelaine noticed a middle-aged man standing at the back of the little hall, hands thrust deep in his pockets, his expression one of polite interest. As the girls filed out of the hall in silent columns, the man came forward, walking up to Madelaine without haste but with definite purpose in his manner.

“Madame,” he said, holding out his hand for hers and proffering a visiting card with the other. “I hope you have time for a word with me.”

“Yes,” she said, after an anxious glance in the direction of Signora Chiodo, who lingered in the doorway, watching her charges as they left the building.

“I am Maurizio Leonetto,” he said as he lifted her hand to his lips in a formal way. He was fairly tall, though not so tall as Sherman, nor so lean. This man had a thick body, a thick, short beard, and thick, chestnut-brown hair. He was dressed in a frock coat over a long, double-breasted waistcoat, as dandified as a man in the world of academe could dare to be.

“So it says on your card,” Madelaine responded, curious to know what it was the man wanted from her.

“I am an . . . advisor to the government, dealing with foreign affairs. I have a number of questions I hope you will be able to answer.” He turned his head to the side so that she could not see him face-on; there was a speculative look in his eyes. “What do you think?”

“I suppose that it would be all right,” she said carefully, noticing that Signora Chiodo was bustling up to them, her hands already fluttering with emotion.

“I told Professore Leonetto that you would be willing to answer his questions. I hope I did not tell him anything you would rather I did not?” She did not wait for an answer, but launched into another volley of observations. “You held the students quite spellbound, Madame. I was astonished to learn that you actually saw American slaves. I must tell you that I am overwhelmed by the scope of the war. To think it was fought over a thousand miles and more. What a shocking thing, to be sure.” She cocked her head to the side. “They are all talking at once. You can hear them if you listen. What magpies they are at that age.”

“Yes,” said Leonetto with a hint of irony in his voice. “They are.”

Signora Chiodo shook her head indulgently. “Most of them are not apt scholars, but there are a few, a precious few, and they need encouragement, or they will turn vapid as any. It was good of you, Madame, to come and tell them all you had encountered.”

“I barely did more than sketch the events.” She had made no mention, of course, of her affair with Sherman, or the appalling wounds she had helped to treat, or the men who had gone mad with war. Of the Indians, she had spoken only of the Choctaw Nation, leaving out most of her travels, as much for credibility as for her desire not to confuse the students.

“Well, it was very stimulating. I have hopes that a few will respond well to what you have said. One or two of them were frightened at first, but you were able to engage their interests without distressing too many of them. You are a very good lecturer, Madame, and my girls will not forget you.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine, her face unchanged in spite of this fulsome compliment.

“I fear I have not much time,” said Leonetto pointedly. “I must return to Roma tomorrow.”

“Then perhaps Signora Chiodo might be good enough to lend us a place to talk?” Madelaine ventured.

“Very good,” said Signora Chiodo, indicating the doorway to the hall. “The library is at the end of this hall; the carved doors. We close it at this time of day. You may use it until the bell for the evening meal sounds.”

“That is most kind of you, Signora,” said Leonetto, and started off toward the carved doors, not waiting to see if Madelaine was following him.

“A bit high-handed, as men in the government are apt to be,” said Signora Chiodo as she watched Leonetto. She put her hand on Madelaine’s arm. “But you may rest assured you will come to no harm from him.”

“That relieves me,” said Madelaine, thinking that Leonetto would not endanger himself by giving rise to complaints about his conduct. Any woman he used, he would arrange the whole of it in advance, and limit himself to those who knew the game.

“You’d better go along,” said Signora Chiodo, as if she addressed one of her students. “I will have coffee and biscotti sent in to you.”

Leonetto was waiting for her just inside the library door, where he bowed to her and indicated the settees flanking the hearth. “We should be comfortable here.”

Madelaine took the settee more out of the sun, for it could be uncomfortable, though at this time of the day it was unlikely to cause her any damage, not with her native earth in her shoes. “Now, what is it you want to know, Professore?”

“You have been in America for some years,” he said. “You’ll pardon me if I say that you do not have the appearance of being old enough to have undertaken such an expedition.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine without conviction. “Yes, I spent a number of years there.”

“And you traveled widely?” He was trying to find his conversational footing.

“Yes. Have you ever been there, Professore?” she asked.

“No, but I have studied it, and I am quite familiar with its history.” He beamed at her, taking pride in his accomplishments.

“That may make this more difficult,” said Madelaine. “I will do my best to answer your questions.”

“That is very good of you.” He coughed delicately. “I have been asked to learn something of the character of President Grant, and, since it appears you met him—”

“I beg your pardon,” Madelaine interrupted. “I never met him. The only figure of any consequence I had dealings with is William T. Sherman, and my opinion of Grant has been formed from Sherman’s report of him. I spent most of the war in the states of Alabama and Georgia, and those were not theaters of operations for General Grant.” She smiled a bit to reassure him.

“I see,” said Leonetto, thrown off his pace by this information.

“I will tell you what Sherman said of Grant, if that would help you, though I had better warn you that the two men are friends, and Sherman is very loyal to his friends.” She watched the man attempt to decide what to do.

Leonetto took the other settee. “I had assumed you had traveled in American centers and cities.”

“Oh, I have, and widely. But I did not visit the capital, nor many of the metropolises. I spent most of my time in the West. I went as far as California.” She recalled her days there with Sherman, now well over a decade ago. His absence struck her poignantly, as it did when she was unprepared for it; discussing him only made it worse.

“I see,” Leonetto said again. “I didn’t understand that. I supposed you must have been traveling more
. . .
.” He gestured with his hands to finish his thoughts.

“Circumspectly? Safely? With more protection?” She laughed. “No, Professore, I did not do those things. I traveled to learn. I did see Saint Louis, of course, and San Francisco, and Atlanta, but not under the best circumstances.”

“Yes.” He adjusted the pull of the fabric of his trousers over his knee. “I thought that perhaps you might have encountered some of these men in your travels.”

“Just General Sherman; and a few of his staff, as well.” She added this last so that it would not appear she was holding anything back. “None of them were doing much socializing at the time.”

“Of course, of course,” said Leonetto, his faint smile showing her answer puzzled more than amused him. “But what can you tell me in regard to Grant? I must present a report to the government and the information you provide will be much appreciated. I understand that anything you say is colored by General Sherman’s representations of the man.”

Madelaine sighed. “Well, he came from a simple background, went to West Point because the family feared he had no head for business, which Te—General Sherman thought was probably the case. He was posted to the Far West and did not like it. He had successes early in the Civil War, principally in Tennessee, but after the battle of Shiloh, he became less active. Surely you know these things.”

“Yes, we do,” Leonetto admitted. “What we are not so sure of is the matter of drink.”

“Oh, that,” said Madelaine. “It is General Sherman’s opinion that Grant only drinks when he is bored. When he is with his wife, or on active campaign, he rarely touches alcohol of any kind.” She smiled a little. “He does not like to be idle; it weighs upon him, and he escapes it.”

“According to General Sherman, who is his friend,” Leonetto amended.

“Yes, according to General Sherman.” She looked toward the westering sun and felt the first solace of the coming night.

Leonetto considered this a short while. “If you know General Sherman well enough, can you tell me if he is likely to run for high office?”

At this Madelaine laughed aloud. “If there is one thing in this world Sherman despises, it is politics. He has contempt for the profession, and a dislike for the men who make up the trade.” She tossed her head. “I pity anyone who attempts to dragoon him into a candidacy.”

“You are sure of that? It is several years since you’ve seen him, and it might be that he has changed his mind.” Leonetto allowed his skepticism to show.

“Professore, if you think Sherman would change his mind on this matter, you have no conception of the man. He would rather be flayed alive than sacrifice his principles.” She paused, fearing she might say something that was too revealing. “I have known him to speak highly of one politician only, and that was Abraham Lincoln, though it took him most of the war to come to approve of him.”

“Then he did change his mind,” Leonetto said sharply.

“Because he could not deny Lincoln’s character, in spite of his profession. The terms upon which Lincoln ended the war earned him Sherman’s admiration for the reasonable demands made regarding the Confederacy. Sherman is a fair man, Professore, and he came to like Lincoln as a human being, not simply as the President of his country. Or a politician.” She looked up as one of the school servants arrived with a tray which she put down on the end-table by Madelaine’s settee. “Thank you, Signorina,” Madelaine said, and motioned the young woman away.

When she was gone, Madelaine poured out two cups of coffee, and handed one to Leonetto, setting hers aside.

Leonetto took the cup and tasted the coffee, making sure it was hot, and then accepted one of the biscotti on the plate Madelaine passed to him. “In spite of what he saw in Lincoln, you do not think Sherman will run for office?” He ran his eyes over the front of Madelaine’s dress with the easy confidence of a man who is certain he is attractive to women.

“No, I do not,” said Madelaine, wishing she could turn away from this inspection without being so obvious she gave offence. “His brother has been in Congress—he may still be there, for all I know. And his step-father has been a major political figure for many years. If Sherman were going to change his mind about a political career, he would have done it long ago.” She regarded Leonetto closely. “Why do you want to know these things?”

He shrugged, attempting to pass over her question. “Any new government needs to gather as much information as possible about the rest of the world.”

“There are many others who could provide you a more accurate account of these things than I can. Why come to me?” Her manner was pleasant but it was clear to them both that she would not accept another such facile response.

“There is some fear that the American war may flare up again. If that happens, we must be prepared to make the most of it.” He put the coffee aside to let it cool. “Should that occur, what do you think General Sherman would do?”

“Go back to the front, I suppose,” Madelaine answered, trying to keep the edge from her voice. “He is determined to preserve the Union at all costs.”

“And you think he would rather do that than be President.” He was very much on the alert now, poised for her answer.

“Yes, I do,” she answered quietly. “As much as he hates war, he would fight again to keep the country intact.” She looked at Leonetto somberly. “I am utterly sure of it, Professore.”

“And would Grant back him in this?” asked Leonetto.

Madelaine was more careful with her answer. “I would expect him to, yes.”

“If he had to fight again, would he win?” The question came quickly; it was another he had been prepared to ask.

“I think it would be easier to stand against a tidal wave than against Sherman,” said Madelaine, remembering the march from Atlanta to Savannah. “And the North has more men and guns than the South.”

“But if that changed?” asked Leonetto. “If the South had more men and guns at their disposal?”

Now that Madelaine sensed his intention, she took a sterner tone with him. “I think that the United States were . . . was damaged very badly by that war, North as well as South. I think it is like a family that has come through a tragic quarrel, and has at last reached a point where it can begin to mend. If it is disrupted again, with all the wounds still apt to bleed, I doubt if either North or South could survive it intact, and that would be the ruin of the place. As it is, it will take generations for the damage to be forgotten.” She also suspected it would the ruin of Sherman, who might well kill himself in despair at such a calamity.