Gonzo observed that everything which was said about little Annetta Marini made the Marchesa emerge for a moment from the state of dreamy indifference in which as a rule she remained plunged until the clock struck eleven; then she made tea, and offered a cup to each of the men present, addressing him by name. After which, at the moment of her withdrawing to her room, she seemed to find a momentary gaiety, and this was the time chosen for repeating to her satirical sonnets.
They compose such sonnets admirably in Italy: it is the one kind of literature that has still a little vitality; as a matter of fact, it is not subjected to the censor, and the courtiers of the casa Crescenzi invariably prefaced their sonnets with these words: “Will the Signora Marchesa permit one to repeat to her a very bad sonnet?” And when the sonnet had been greeted with laughter and had been repeated several times, one of the officers would not fail to exclaim: “The Minister of Police ought to see about giving a bit of hanging to the authors of such atrocities.” Middle class society, on the other hand, welcomes these sonnets with the most open admiration, and the lawyers’ clerks sell copies of them.
From the sort of curiosity shown by the Marchesa, Gonzo imagined that too much had been said in front of her of the beauty of the little Marini, who moreover had a fortune of a million, and that the other woman was jealous of her. As, with his incessant smile and his complete effrontery towards all that was not noble, Gonzo found his way everywhere, on the very next day he arrived in the Marchesa’s drawing-room, carrying his plumed hat in a triumphant fashion which was to be seen perhaps only once or twice in the year, when the Prince had said to him: “Addio, Gonzo.”
After respectfully greeting the Marchesa, Gonzo did not withdraw as usual to take his seat on the chair which had just been pushed forward for him. He took his stand in the middle of the circle and exclaimed bluntly: “I have seen the portrait of Monsignor del Dongo.” Clelia was so surprised that she was obliged to lean upon the arm of her chair; she tried to face the storm, but presently was obliged to leave the room.
“You must agree, my poor Gonzo, that your tactlessness is unique,” came arrogantly from one of the officers, who was finishing his fourth ice. “Don’t you know that the Coadjutor, who was one of the most gallant Colonels in Napoleon’s army, played a trick that ought to have hanged him on the Marchesa’s father, when he walked out of the citadel where General Fabio Conti was in command, as he might have walked out of the Steccata?” (The Steccata is the principal church in Parma.)
“Indeed I am ignorant of many things, my dear Captain, and I am a poor imbecile who makes blunders all day long.”
This reply, quite to the Italian taste, caused a laugh at the expense of the brilliant officer. The Marchesa soon returned; she had armed herself with courage, and was not without hope of being able herself to admire this portrait, which was said to be excellent. She spoke with praise of the talent of Hayez, who had painted it. Unconsciously she addressed charming smiles at Gonzo, who looked malevolently at the officer. As all the other courtiers of the house indulged in the same pastime, the officer took flight, not without vowing a deadly hatred against Gonzo; the latter was triumphant, and later in the evening, when he took his leave, was invited to dine next day.
“I can tell you something more,” cried Gonzo, the following evening, after dinner, when the servants had left the room: “the latest thing is that our Coadjutor has fallen in love with the little Marini!”
One may judge of the agitation that arose in Clelia’s heart on hearing so extraordinary an announcement. The Marchese himself was moved.
“But, Gonzo my friend, you are off the track, as usual! And you ought to speak with a little more caution of a person who has had the honour to sit down eleven times at his Highness’s whist-table.”
“Well, Signor Marchese,” replied Gonzo with the coarseness of people of his sort, “I can promise you that he would just as soon sit down to the little Marini. But it is enough that these details displease you; they no longer exist for me, who desire above all things not to shock my beloved Marchese.”
Regularly, after dinner, the Marchese used to retire to take a siesta. He let the time pass that day; but Gonzo would sooner have cut out his tongue than have said another word about the little Marini; and, every moment, he began a speech, so planned that the Marchese might hope that he was about to return to the subject of the little lady’s love affairs. Gonzo had in a superior degree that Italian quality of mind which consists in exquisitely delaying the launching of the word for which one’s hearer longs. The poor Marchese, dying of curiosity, was obliged to make advances; he told Gonzo that, when he had the pleasure of dining with him, he ate twice as much as usual. Gonzo did not take the hint, he began to describe a magnificent collection of pictures which the Marchesa Balbi, the late Prince’s mistress, was forming; three or four times he spoke of Hayez, in a slow and measured tone full of the most profound admiration. The Marchese said to himself: “Now he is coming to the portrait which the little Marini ordered!” But this was what Gonzo took good care not to do. Five o’clock struck, which put the Marchese in the worst of tempers, for he was in the habit of getting into his carriage at half past five, after his siesta,
