CHAPTER L

COMO AT LAST

"I must have a house on Lake Como," wrote Pliny, "but I dare not have any windows in it that look out upon the lake, for if I do I shall never be able to do any work."

There lies the long thin sheet of peaceful water, pointing like a long finger from out of the rugged heart of the Alps right down into the great level plain of Lombardy.

This hand that points this long thin finger is half doubled up at Belaggio, which is about midway, and one finger, the lesser one, points off at an obtuse angle to the south.

In the forks of this long thin lake, where the fingers divide, stands Bellagio, the centre of the earth, and of which we shall see more by and bye.

On the extreme end of this long thin finger pointing down and out of the Alps straight into the great plain of Lombardy, has grown a great wart. This wart is called the City of Como. It is as old, perhaps, as Jerusalem. It was founded by the Greek colonists before Rome was thought of. You can see the Greek in the faces of the people; particularly in the faces of the wonderful women. On the old cathedral, storm stained and eaten by the tooth of time and washed into channels and furrows by the rains of heaven, as if the faces of the marble men had really wrinkled from age, you see the statues of the two Plinys.

Old, very old indeed, is this town of Como, and yet only yesterday they erected a great fountain in their great square, and last year built a hundred houses that look like palaces. The old town, like a hundred others in Italy, is being galvanized into new life by the gold of English and American travellers. Tell an Italian this, however, and he will be sorely offended. He will insist that Italy is full of resources, that she does all this herself, and does not at all need the money of the stranger. He will tell you that Italy has always been great, a power, and the centre of the earth. Let an American dare to dispute this, and the proud Italian will strike an attitude and say to him, "Why, we discovered you!"

It was the fashion this particular season of which we write, to sit down at or near Bellagio. Como, the town of Como and its immediate neighbours, had but little business this season save as depots of arrival and departure; all pushed on up the long, lovely lake, to where it divided, and there gathered about the forks.

"How much it is like the Mississippi River," thought Murietta to himself, who had left the train at Como and was now running up the lake to the great-little centre of Bellagio. "It would be precisely like the wide, clear, crooked river of the West but for tliese overhanging mountains and these noble palaces on the edge of the wave with their feet in the cool sweet water, as if to cool in this sultry season," said the man to himself as he rolled another cigarette and elbowed his way through the dense crowd of passengers to the other side and looked up, away up through the white fleecy clouds, at a beautiful old place of worship perched like a great grey eagle of the Rocky Mountains on the topmost crag. "Nay, it is just like the Columbia," he said, as he looked again, "for there drift the sunny clouds, there lift the toppling crags, and here are the massy rocks in the water's edge and there the wild foliage on the steep and stupendous shore of lifted and rifted mountains." And then he forgot the crags and clouds above, and looked down into the thousand little pleasure boats that moved and wound across and about, and bore little flags and light hearts and happy uplifted faces that looked curiously into the crowd of travellers for friends and fellow tourists.

Of these flags one half were the Stars and Stripes, a great number were English, and not a few Italian. It was noticeable that there was not a craft afloat without a Saxon face somewhere to be seen among the passengers or seekers of pleasure.

Over and across, from side to side, the little steamer shot from town to town, and took in or set down tourists; and made at least forty calls on one side of the long lake or the other, wedged down there between the walls of the Alps, before it touched at Bellagio.

As they neared this town, cutting across the narrow lake from Cadenabbia, Murietta stood out on the prow, and kissed his hand, once, twice, thrice, and very fervidly, at the beautiful Bellagio, for it was there he knew he should once more meet the grand and wonderful woman, Annette.

As you near this town, coming up the long narrow lake that points straight out through the Alps into the great plains of Lombardy, you will see that the lake is much wider above you, and you can see where a high and lifted mountain pushes its nose abruptly into the lake, and splits it in two.

On the north side of this steep and pine topped little mountain stands Bellagio, a little town of only two or three thousand souls of mixed Greek and Italian blood; and these mostly keepers of shops, chop houses, and wine shops, besides an unreasonable number of priests in black and grey, and brown, and tall, fine looking fishermen and boatmen; and then, too, an intolerable number of hard looking Italians, who can safely be set down as brigands and assassins, who are quite ready for any job, from acting as courier and interpreter for parties abroad who have more money than knowledge, up to stealing a stranger's child, or assassinating their own great king.

It is remarkable that here at the north base of this little round pine crowned mountain, lifting up abruptly in the forks of the lake, and almost surrounded by its waters, stand two of the most beautiful hotels in all Europe. In truth you may almost say, too, that they are the most magnificent.

They stand almost quite down at the edge of the water, with only room enough for little walks through woods and flowers as beautiful as paths through paradise. All along the edge of the lake there stand double rows of sycamore trees; and under these trees, on the stone benches, sit tourists by hundreds in the cool fresh mornings of the summer time, whipping the lake with their fish lines, and fishing their breakfasts of fish from the populous lake.

Boats with lovers go by in perfect little fleets all the time, and at night they hang them with many coloured lamps; and it is said that lovers meet on the waters of this lake of all lakes by preconcerted signals made of these many-coloured lamps, which they alone can read and understand.

Murietta knew that Annette and her people were at the Hotel Gran Bretagna. Therefore he went to the Hotel Grande Bellagio.

If you have a poor opinion of the world you should go to Como, sit down at Bellagio for a month, and rest there. After that you will be quite satisfied that there is upon earth at least one place where there is beauty, and beauty only; peace, and perfect peace.

If you will have a courier with you, who is constantly keeping you in hot water by his thefts and extortions; if you will travel with a lot of loud people at your heels, who do not know what rest is; and, finally, if you will insist on putting up at the Grand Hotel Bellagio, where you must fight every day at the point of the sword to get your bill down to double the sum you have stipulated it should be, instead of going to an old-established and less extortionate house, why do not blame Bellagio if you do not rest, but blame yourself.

Murietta made the mistake of going to this beautiful and magnificent hotel. In fact, it had been surprising if he had not made it. In all the thousand journeys of his life, he had never come to the forks of the road, where the choice of the right way depended on his own judgment, but what he took the wrong one. Yet here he, perhaps, would have gone to the English hotel, but for Annette.

Another man, of course, would not for a moment have thought of any other hotel than the one where the queen of his heart was staying. The artist would sooner have camped under one of the sycamore trees by the side of the lake. He loved this woman so devotedly. He feared to trust himself in her presence, perhaps. Perhaps he feared he might disturb her by his presence. In truth, had he been asked the reason why he so determinedly sought another place to put up at, he could not have answered at all. Then do not expect us to answer for him. We must be content to state the fact. There may be those who themselves have loved as this man loved, and they will understand.

He stood on the high balcony of his hotel, and looked down the lake' to the Hotel Gran Bretagna, and kissed his hand to it. Further down the lake, along the lane of sycamore trees, stood the palace of the Duke of Lodi, whose grandfather had been dignified by that title by the little Corsican on the battlefield of Lodi. Across the lake in savage grandeur lifted the Alps, where the Russians attempted to pass, and perished; and these Alps had little cities all along their base on the edge of the water, and little white churches about their rugged brows, where blew white clouds perpetually like wreaths and puffs of battle smoke blown from the battlements of Titans.

Peace, and the perfect summer. Cool waters, and music all the time floating on the waters from under the banners of strange lands. People coming and going away. Beautiful Saxon women, and tall, half Greek fishermen. Citizens sitting in the cool of the trees by the water. Clouds blowing against the blue sky. White snow peaks flashing afar off in the sun. Fruit at your hand and flowers at your feet. Peace in the air. Comeliness everjrwhere. This was Como.

Inconsistent as it may seem, Murietta could scarcely rest, could not dine at all till he had stolen down to the other hotel and quietly asked the clerk if the one fair woman and her friends were there. He was certain of this before. He was just as certain that they were at the one hotel as he was that he was at the other. But he could not help stealing down and asking after her with studied indifference. Those who can understand the first action will understand this.

But his inquiry was not without results. He found that they were not actually in this house, but in a dependence of this hotel, up on the top of the little pine topped mountain with its nose pushed into the forks of the lake, before described. He had in fact been kissing his hand at the wrong house.

He walked up towards this dependence, lifted so high above him, sitting there among the pines and ruins, looking down on the whole water locked world and the Alps wedging the lake, but was stopped at a gate by an old woman, who demanded either a ticket or money to enter;

"Good!" thought the artist to himself. "She is shut in from the mob. This is right. The world shall not look upon her. Perhaps fewer men will see her now. But this is near enough for tonight. I will come nearer to-morrow."

As he turned down towards his hotel, he saw the retreating figure of the old admiral. He was gorgeously dressed and walked as if he owned the town.

Whose death did the presence terrible shark in these wat