Vanno would have died rather than speak out such thoughts to any one on
earth, for they were the property of that self which his brother Angelo
said was at war with the other self, the self which the world knew.
Now and then, as he walked up the mule path with a step which became
lighter with the lightness of the air, he threw a word in Italian to a
passing peasant, some Ligurian-looking man who drove a bright-coloured
market garden ending in a donkey's head and tail. Eyes and teeth flashed
comprehension, but the answer was in a queer _patois_, a hotch-potch of
Latin, Italian, French, and Arabic.
On the top of the mountain Vanno breakfasted, at a pink hotel
fantastically built in hybrid Moorish style. From his window-table he
could see the Tour de Supplice on a height below; a broken column of
stone said to mark the place where Romans tortured and executed their
prisoners. Far beneath lay the Rock of Hercules and Monte Carlo, the
four unequal horns of the great white animal springing saliently to the
eye even at this height. To the right, the great iron-gray bulk of the
Tete de Chien hid the promontories which, like immense prehistoric
reptiles, swam out to sea beyond Beaulieu; but to the left were the
mountains of Italy, their highest ridges marbled with dazzling snow;
and Cap Martin's green length was frilled with silver ripples.
Still Vanno was happy, as he had not been since he saw Mary dining alone
in the restaurant of the Hotel de Paris.
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