"No, Doro, you and I must never quarrel. By the way, though, I want to see you angry. Every one talks of the Panacci temper, but when I am with you I always see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he is as lively as a boy. Viviano--"
"Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey from whom another monkey has s.n.a.t.c.hed a nut?"
"No."
"It is like this--"
With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into the likeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fierce simian cries.
"No, I can"t do it."
With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling self again.
"Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the other way when he pa.s.ses along the Marina where the women are bathing in the summer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you know how religious she is. But then, of course, men--that does not matter.
Religion is for women, and they understand that quite well."
The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. One virtue he had in the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom he considered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy never occurred to him.
"Mamma would hate it if we were saints," he continued.
"I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension on that score,"
said Artois.
"No, I don"t think so," returned the Marchesino, quite seriously.
He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve him. Occasionally it was fitful, and when summoned by irony remained at a distance.
"It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry," he continued, reverting to the remark of Artois; "you ought to. Till you have seen a Panacci angry you do not really know him. With you, of course, I could never be angry--never, never. You are my friend, my comrade. To you I tell everything."
A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. Evidently a new thought had started into his active mind, for his face suddenly changed, and became serious, even sentimental.
"What is it?" asked Artois.
"To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl--Madonna! Emilio, she had a little nose that was perfect--perfect. How she was simpatica! What a beautiful girl!"
His whole face a.s.sumed a melting expression, and he pursed his lips in the form of a kiss.
"She was in the sea, too?" asked Artois.
"No. If she had been! But I was with papa. It was just after we had been serenading you. She had heard us, I am sure, for she was laughing. I dived under the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks for her. I did the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. She never took her eyes from me. As to papa--she never glanced at him. Poor papa! He was angry.
She had her mother with her, I think--a Signora, tall, flat, ugly, but she was simpatica, too. She had nice eyes, and when I did the seal she could not help laughing, though I think she was rather sad."
"What sort of boat were they in?" Artois asked, with sudden interest.
"A white boat with a green line."
"And they were coming from the direction of Posilipo?"
"Ma si! Emilio, do you know them? Do you know the perfect little nose?"
The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of his friend.
"I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother--she is flat as a Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, intelligent. And the girl is a little brown--from the sun--with eyes full of fun and fire, dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet--there is something English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not cold. And when she laughs! Her teeth are not like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli"s. And she is full of pa.s.sion, of flame, of sentiment, as I am. And she is young, perhaps sixteen. Do you know her? Present me, Emilio! I have presented you to all my friends."
"Mio caro, you have made me your debtor for life."
"It isn"t true!"
"Indeed it is true. But I do not know who these ladies are. They may be Italians. They may be tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have left Naples. Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I tell who they are?"
The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor vanished. His gesticulating hands fell to his sides. His expressive face grew melancholy.
"Of course. How can you tell? Directly I was out of the sea and dressed, I went to Santa Lucia. I examined every boat, but the white boat with the green line was not there, Basta!"
He lit a fresh cigarette and was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"Emilio caro, will you come out with me to-night?"
"With pleasure."
"In the boat. There will be a moon. We will dine at the Antico Giuseppone."
"So far off as that?" Artois said, rather abruptly.
"Why not? To-day I hate the town. I want tranquility. At the Antico Giuseppone there will be scarcely any one. It is early in the season.
And afterwards we will fish for sarde, or saraglie. Take me away from Naples, Emilio; take me away! For to-night, if I stay--well, I feel that I shall not be santo."
Artois burst into his big roaring laugh.
"And why do you want to be santo to-night?" he asked.
"The beautiful girl! I wish to keep her memory, if only for one night."
"Very well, then. We will fish, and you shall be a saint."
"Caro Emilio! Perhaps Viviano will come, too. But I think he will be with Lidia. She is singing to-night at the Teatro Nuovo. Be ready at half-past seven. I will call for you. And now I shall leave you."
He got up, went over to a mirror, carefully arranged his tie, and put on his straw hat at exactly the most impudent angle.
"I shall leave you to write your book while I meet papa at the villa.
Do you know why papa is so careful to be always at the villa at four o"clock just now?"
"No!"
"Nor does mamma! If she did! Povera mamma! But she can always go to Ma.s.s. A rivederci, Emilio."
He moved his hat a little more to one side and went out, swinging his walking-stick gently to and fro in a manner that was pensive and almost sentimental.