Letters to Juliet

Chapter 8

Letters to Juliet – chapter 8
(Correction made my precious Nila)

Standing in front of the window of his bedroom with his arms crossed behind his back, Count Contarini looked at the sky growing pale with pastel colours with an inattentive eye. He had not slept a wink all night and, tired of turning and turning again in his bed, he had ended by getting up and searching for something that would entertain him as he waited for the other inhabitants to wake up. On several times, he attempted to go to Terry's bedroom to push him, to admonish him severely, because what he had witnessed few hours ago had revolted him. But each time, he had stopped himself, understanding that the young man needed his support more than his reproaches. It would be early enough to talk about that incident with him and try to give a meaning to it. The dreadful scene perpetually turned in his mind. With a thrill of horror, he imagined what would have happened if he was one second too late, unable to rescue him.

-What madness had crossed his mind ? - he wondered, sighing sadly. He well suspected that it was about the young woman Terry had told him about and who exalted his voice each time he evoked her. But he did not imagine that it would lead him to an irreversible action. However, he had begun to get worried when, in the afternoon, his butler and right-arm Roberto who had been sent after Candy, had returned to announce some unexpected difficulties : that Miss Andrew was nowhere to be found, but a vague rumour about her presence in town was whispering and swelling, bit by bit. The only problem was that she was not supposed to be alone, even worse, she was supposed to be married !... The Count had immediately called one of his acquaintances nicknamed "The Gazette of Venice", a real woman of gossip, but someone who remained the best source of information when it concerned the latest tabloid of the elite. That latter had confessed to him that a reporter had contacted her during the morning to ask her confirmation of a certain news that he had received from his boss in New-York. The Andrew family was not very well-known in Europe, and even less by Sir Capwell, but the fact that an American journalist was interested in that couple served as incontestable proof, so well that the rumour had slowly spread, certainly in the Venetian salons. It did not take much to entertain all those happy people who were very fond of gossip, even the most trifling ones. Following his investigations, still assisted by his faithful Roberto, the Count had gone to the Baglioni hotel. The receptionist had begun to shake when the Count had explained to him the reason of his visit, and had stepped back, fearing a new assault. Placing confidence, he ended up telling what had happened earlier, describing the impulsive reaction of that English visitor who had quite terrorized him. But what had alarmed the Count was when he learnt how Terry had left afterwards, looking gloomy, without a word.
For Christ's sake !!! Why didn't he wait for the Miss and confront her with her contradictions ? At the same age, I would have been able to break everything before such betrayal !...

Then he had realized that a very violent emotional shock could bring you down and leave you without any reaction, devastated, as if killed on the spot... You would lose all reason, nothing would have any meaning nor interest, not even your own life... He had known that terrible sorrow once, and fortunately his best friend was with him that day because inwardly, he knew that what had crossed his mind at that time deserved their concern... Here, the young Grandchester, unfortunately, did not have any friend to share his distress with. He was at the mercy of a desperate act that could take possession of him at any moment. He had to catch him as quickly as possible !

The Count and his butler had then decided to separate to increase their chance in finding him sooner, but it was without taking into account the tangle of canals and streets that they had to wander ! He could be anywhere ! On the eve of the night, empty-handed and disappointed, they had reconvened at San Marco square. Exhausted by those long hours of walking, the Count had felt the need to sit down at a café terrace to catch his breath for a few minutes. Luckily, he had chosen the Caffé Florian. As the server asked him what he wanted to order to drink, the old man, with no real conviction asked him for the hundredth times, if he had seen a young English man around. As he described the young man, the waiter had opened wide his eyes and nodded frenetically in agreement.