“For example--?” pursued Beatrice.
“For example, your Serenity--” Marietta paused, to search her memory.-- “Well, for one example, he calls roast veal a fowl. I give him roast veal for his luncheon, and he says to me, 'Marietta, this fowl has no wings.' But everyone knows, your Mercy, that veal is not a fowl. How should veal have wings?”
“How indeed?” assented Beatrice, on a note of commiseration. And if the corners of her mouth betrayed a tendency to curve upwards, she immediately compelled them down. “But perhaps he does not speak Italian very well?” she suggested.
“Mache, Potenza! Everyone speaks Italian,” cried Marietta.
“Indeed?” said Beatrice.
“Naturally, your Grace--all Christians,” Marietta declared.
“Oh, I did n't know,” said Beatrice, meekly. “Well,” she acknowledged, “since he speaks Italian, it is certainly unreasonable of him to call veal a fowl.”
“But that, Magnificence,” Marietta went on, warming to her theme, “that is only one of his simplicities. He asks me, 'Who puts the whitewash on Monte Sfiorito? 'And when I tell him that it is not whitewash, but snow, he says, 'How do you know?' But everyone knows that it is snow. Whitewash!”
The sprightly old woman gave her whole body a shake, for the better exposition of her state of mind. And thereupon, from the interior of her basket, issued a plaintive little squeal.
“What have you in your basket?” Beatrice asked.
“A little piglet, Nobility--un piccolo porcellino,” said Marietta.
And lifting the cover an inch or two, she displayed the anxious face of a poor little sucking pig.
“E carino?” she demanded, whilst her eyes beamed with a pride that almost seemed maternal.
“What on earth are you going to do with him?” Beatrice gasped.
The light of pride gave place to a light of resolution, in Marietta's eyes.
“Kill him, Mightiness,” was her grim response; “stuff him with almonds, raisins, rosemary, and onions; cook him sweet and sour; and serve him, garnished with rosettes of beet-root, for my Signorino's Sunday dinner.”
“Oh-h-h!” shuddered Beatrice and Emilia, in a breath; and they resumed their walk.
XII
Francois was dining--with an appearance of great fervour.
Peter sat on his rustic bench, by the riverside, and watched him, smoking a cigarette the while.
The Duchessa di Santangiolo stood screened by a tree in the park of Ventirose, and watched them both.
Francois wore a wide blue ribbon round his pink and chubby neck; and his dinner consisted of a big bowlful of bread and milk.
Presently the Duchessa stepped forth from her ambush, into the sun, and laughed.
“What a sweetly pretty scene,” she said. “Pastoral--idyllic--it reminds one of Theocritus--it reminds one of Watteau.”
Peter threw his cigarette into the river, and made an obeisance.
“I am very glad you feel the charm of it,” he responded. “May I be permitted to present Master Francois Vllon?”
“We have met before,” said the Duchessa, graciously smiling upon Francois, and inclining her head.
“Oh, I did n't know,” said Peter, apologetic.
“Yes,” said the Duchessa, “and in rather tragical circumstances. But at that time he was anonymous. Why--if you won't think my curiosity impertinent--why Francois Villon?”
“Why not?” said Peter. “He made such a tremendous outcry when he was condemned to death, for one thing. You should have heard him. He has a voice! Then, for another, he takes such a passionate interest in his meat and drink. And then, if you come to that, I really had n't the heart to call him Pauvre Lelian.”
The Duchessa raised amused eyebrows.
“You felt that Pauvre Lelian was the only alternative?”
“I had in mind a remark of Pauvre Lilian's friend and confrere, the cryptic Stephane,” Peter answered. “You will remember it. 'L'ame d'un poete dans le corps d'un--' I--I forget the last word,” he faltered.
“Shall we say 'little pig'?” suggested the Duchessa.
“Oh, please don't,” cried Peter, hastily, with a gesture of supplication. “Don't say 'pig' in his presence. You'll wound his feelings.”
The Duchessa laughed.
“I knew he was condemned to death,” she owned. “Indeed, it was in his condemned cell that I made his acquaintance. Your Marietta Cignolesi introduced us. Her air was so inexorable, I 'm a good deal surprised to see him alive to-day. There was some question of a stuffing of rosemary and onions.”
“Ah, I see,” said Peter, “I see that you're familiar with the whole disgraceful story. Yes, Marietta, the unspeakable old Tartar, was all for stuffing him with rosemary and onions. But he could not bring himself to share her point of view. He screamed his protest, like a man, in twenty different octaves. You really should have heard him. His voice is of a compass, of a timbre, of an expressiveness! Passive endurance, I fear, is not his forte. For the sake of peace and silence, I intervened, interceded. She had her knife at his very throat. I was not an instant too soon. So, of course, I 've had to adopt him.”
“Of course, poor man,” sympathised the Duchessa. “It's a recognised principle that if you save a fellow's life, you 're bound to him for the rest of yours. But--but won't you find him rather a burdensome responsibility when he's grownup?” she reflected.
“--Que voulez-vous?” reflected Peter. “Burdensome responsibilities are the appointed accompaniments of man's pilgrimage. Why not Francois Villon, as well as another? And besides, as the world is at present organised, a member of the class vulgarly styled 'the rich' can generally manage to shift his responsibilities, when they become too irksome, upon the backs of the poor. For example--Marietta! Marietta!” he called, raising his voice a little, and clapping his hands.
Marietta came. When she had made her courtesy to the Duchessa, and a polite enquiry as to her Excellency's health, Peter said, with an indicative nod of the head, “Will you be so good as to remove my responsibility?”
“Il porcellino?” questioned Marietta.
“Ang,” said he.
And when Marietta had borne Francois, struggling and squealing in her arms, from the foreground--
“There--you see how it is done,” he remarked.
The Duchessa laughed.
“An object-lesson,” she agreed. “An object-lesson in--might n't one call it the science of Applied Cynicism?”
“Science!” Peter plaintively repudiated the word. “No, no. I was rather flattering myself it was an art.”
“Apropos of art--” said the Duchessa.
She came down two or three steps nearer to the brink of the river. She produced from behind her back a hand that she had kept there, and held up for Peter's inspection a grey-and-gold bound book.
“Apropos of art, I've been reading a novel. Do you know it?”
Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding--and dissembled the emotion that suddenly swelled big in his heart.
He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look.
“I can't make out the title,” he temporised, shaking his head, and letting his eyeglass drop.
On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult little smile that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile of appreciation.
“It has a highly appropriate title,” she said. “It is called 'A Man of Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of before, named Felix Wildmay.”
“Oh, yes. How very odd,” said Peter. “By a curious chance, I know it very well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do. How on earth did it fall into your hands?”
“Why on earth shouldn't it?” wondered she. “Novels are intended to fall into people's hands, are they not?”
“I believe so,” he assented. “But intentions, in this vale of tears, are not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of Words' is not like other novels. It's peculiar.”
“Peculiar--?” she repeated.
“Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity,” he explained. “There has been no failure approaching it since What's-his-name invented printing. I hadn't supposed that seven copies of it were in circulation.”
“Really?” said the Duchessa. “A correspondent of mine in London recommended it. But--in view of its unparalleled obscurity is n't it almost equally a matter for surprise that you should know it?”
“It would be, sure enough,” consented Peter, “if it weren't that I just happen also to know the author.”
“Oh--? You know the author?” cried the Duchessa, with animation.
“Comme ma poche,” said Peter. “We were boys together.”
“Really?” said she. “What a coincidence.”
“Yes,” said he.
“And--and his book?” Her eyebrows went up, interrogative. “I expect, as you know the man, you think rather poorly of it?”
“On the contrary, in the teeth of verisimilitude, I think extremely well of it,” he answered firmly. “I admire it immensely. I think it's an altogether ripping little book. I think it's one of the nicest little books I've read for ages.
“How funny,” said she.
“Why funny?” asked he.
“It's so unlikely that one should seem a genius to one's old familiar friends.”
“Did I say he seemed a genius to me? I misled you. He does n't. In fact, he very frequently seems--but, for Charity's sake, I 'd best forbear to tell. However, I admire his book. And--to be entirely frank--it's a constant source of astonishment to me that he should ever have been able to do anything one-tenth so good.”