Here, it is easy to perceive, is some slight ambiguity. Evidently she meant to say, by the seduction of "bad" company, and to express that his Reverence had a.s.serted his power of absolution; which is undeniable.
_Boccaccio._ I have my version.
_Petrarca._ What may yours be?
_Boccaccio._ Frate Biagio; broad as daylight; the whole frock round!
I would wager a flask of oil against a turnip, that he laid another trap for a penance. Let us see how he went on. I warrant, as he warmed, he left off limping in his paces, and bore hard upon the bridle.
_Petrarca._ "Much do I fear," continued the expositor, "he never spoke to thee, child, about another world."
There was a silence of some continuance.
"Speak!" said the confessor.
"No indeed he never did, poor Padrone!" was the slow and evidently reluctant avowal of the maiden; for, in the midst of the acknowledgment her sighs came through the crevices of the door: then, without any farther interrogation, and with little delay, she added:
"But he often makes this look like it."
_Boccaccio._ And now, if he had carried a holy scourge, it would not have been on his shoulders that he would have laid it.
_Petrarca._ Zeal carries men often too far afloat; and confessors in general wish to have the sole steerage of the conscience. When she told him that your benignity made this world another heaven, he warmly and sharply answered:
"It is only we who ought to do that."
"Hush," said the maiden; and I verily believe she at that moment set her back against the door, to prevent the sounds from coming through the crevices, for the rest of them seemed to be just over my night-cap. "Hush," said she, in the whole length of that softest of all articulations. "There is Ser Francesco in the next room: he sleeps long into the morning, but he is so clever a clerk, he may understand you just the same. I doubt whether he thinks Ser Giovanni in the wrong for making so many people quite happy; and if he should, it would grieve me very much to think he blamed Ser Giovanni."
"Who is Ser Francesco?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Ser Canonico," she answered.
"Of what Duomo?" continued he.
"Who knows?" was the reply; "but he is Padrone"s heart"s friend, for certain."
"Cospetto di Bacco! It can then be no other than Petrarca. He makes rhymes and love like the devil. Don"t listen to him, or you are undone. Does he love you too, as well as Padrone?" he asked, still lowering his voice.
"I cannot tell that matter," she answered, somewhat impatiently; "but I love him."
"To my face!" cried he, smartly.
"To the Santissima!" replied she, instantaneously; "for have not I told your Reverence he is Padrone"s true heart"s friend! And are not you my confessor, when you come on purpose?"
"True, true!" answered he; "but there are occasions when we are shocked by the confession, and wish it made less daringly."
"I was bold; but who can help loving him who loves my good Padrone?"
said she, much more submissively.
_Boccaccio._ Brave girl, for that!
Dog of a Frate! They are all of a kidney; all of a kennel. I would dilute their meal well and keep them low. They should not waddle and wallop in every hollow lane, nor loll out their watery tongues at every wash-pool in the parish. We shall hear, I trust, no more about Fra Biagio in the house while you are with us. Ah! were it then for life.
_Petrarca._ The man"s prudence may be reasonably doubted, but it were uncharitable to question his sincerity. Could a neighbour, a religious one in particular, be indifferent to the welfare of Boccaccio, or any belonging to him?
_Boccaccio._ I do not complain of his indifference. Indifferent! no, not he. He might as well be, though. My villetta here is my castle: it was my father"s; it was his father"s. Cowls did not hang to dry upon the same cord with caps in their podere; they shall not in mine. The girl is an honest girl, Francesco, though I say it. Neither she nor any other shall be befooled and bamboozled under my roof. Methinks Holy Church might contrive some improvement upon confession.
_Petrarca._ Hush! Giovanni! But, it being a matter of discipline, who knows but she might.
_Boccaccio._ Discipline! ay, ay, ay! faith and troth there are some who want it.
_Petrarca._ You really terrify me. These are sad surmises.
_Boccaccio._ Sad enough: but I am keeper of my handmaiden"s probity.
_Petrarca._ It could not be kept safer.
_Boccaccio._ I wonder what the Frate would be putting into her head?
_Petrarca._ Nothing, nothing: be a.s.sured.
_Boccaccio._ Why did he ask her all those questions?
_Petrarca._ Confessors do occasionally take circuitous ways to arrive at the secrets of the human heart.
_Boccaccio._ And sometimes they drive at it, me thinks, a whit too directly. He had no business to make remarks about me.
_Petrarca._ Anxiety.
_Boccaccio._ "Fore G.o.d, Francesco, he shall have more of that; for I will shut him out the moment I am again up and stirring, though he stand but a nose"s length off. I have no fear about the girl; no suspicion of her. He might whistle to the moon on a frosty night, and expect as reasonably her descending. Never was a man so entirely at his ease as I am about that; never, never. She is adamant; a bright sword now first unscabbarded; no breath can hang about it. A seal of beryl, of chrysolite, of ruby; to make impressions (all in good time and proper place though) and receive none: incapable, just as they are, of splitting, or cracking, or flawing, or harbouring dirt. Let him mind that. Such, I a.s.sure you, is that poor little wench, a.s.suntina.
_Petrarca._ I am convinced that so well-behaved a young creature as a.s.sunta----
_Boccaccio._ Right! a.s.sunta is her name by baptism; we usually call her a.s.suntina, because she is slender, and scarcely yet full-grown, perhaps: but who can tell?
As for those friars, I never was a friend to impudence: I hate loose suggestions. In girls" minds you will find little dust but what is carried there by gusts from without. They seldom want sweeping; when they do, the broom should be taken from behind the house door, and the master should be the sacristan.
... Scarcely were these words uttered when a.s.sunta was heard running up the stairs; and the next moment she rapped. Being ordered to come in, she entered with a willow twig in her hand, from the middle of which willow twig (for she held the two ends together) hung a fish, shining with green and gold.
"What hast there, young maiden?" said Ser Francesco.
"A fish, Riverenza!" answered she. "In Tuscany we call it _tinca_."
_Petrarca._ I too am a little of a Tuscan.
_a.s.sunta._ Indeed! well, you really speak very like one, but only more sweetly and slowly. I wonder how you can keep up with Signor Padrone--he talks fast when he is in health; and you have made him so.
Why did not you come before? Your Reverence has surely been at Certaldo in time past.
_Petrarca._ Yes, before thou wert born.