“If only I too, were a man!” groaned Gian-Luca, writhing at the thought of the Padrone.
Yet he served him more devotedly than ever before, in mortal terror of offending. To offend the Padrone was to anger the Padrona—how strange were the ways of women!
At about this time Schmidt grew very friendly to Gian-Luca, anxious to curry favor, for everyone knew at the Capo di Monte that Gian-Luca was much liked by the Padrona. No doubt it was owing to her intercessions that he was given an evening now and then, and sometimes, on a Sunday, he would get the day off, an unusual proceeding at the Capo. She had once been heard telling the Padrone that Gian-Luca was young and still growing: “If we work him too hard he may get ill,” she had said, “and that would be very inconvenient.” Schmidt had winked heavily at Mario over this, but Mario had only frowned. Mario, outrageous old poacher that he was, had the makings of a fine gamekeeper.
To Gian-Luca, Schmidt said: “You admire our Padrona? She is beautiful, wunderschön!”
Schmidt looked very sympathetic, he sighed once or twice, and just at that moment Gian-Luca’s heart was full; so instead of snubbing Schmidt as he generally did he expanded ever so slightly. Schmidt was as sentimental as a schoolgirl and as lustful as any satyr, thus Gian-Luca’s budding manhood began to amuse him.
“Ach Gott! They are dreadful, these women,” mourned Schmidt, “they are surely put here to torment us.”
Mario, ever watchful, cautioned Schmidt severely. “You be careful with Gian-Luca; I will not have you teach him to be a dirty dog like you are. I love him, he is clean, he knows nothing of life, my wife she was his foster-mother.”
Schmidt nodded and grinned wisely. “I understand,” he said, “but Gian-Luca is in love mit die Padrona.”
“You shut your face up quick,” Mario told him in a rage. “If you do not, I make it shut up for you.”
In his methods with Gian-Luca, however, Mario was foolish for he jeered at the Holy of Holies. “Caspita!” he laughed one afternoon that summer, “you are growing as vain as any peacock. Now if all this fuss is about our Padrona, I advise you to stop being silly; for one thing you are young, for another she is old, I can see several wrinkles already—anyhow, it is silly, and if your Nonna knew she would certainly laugh at you as I do.”
Gian-Luca got up quickly from his chair in the pantry; he was pale, and his voice shook a little. “She is young and she has not got one single wrinkle.” He turned to the door. “I am going out with Schmidt,” he flung over his shoulder at Mario.
Now this was the last thing that Mario had wanted, so he hobbled after Gian-Luca. “Piccino!” he called, “do not stay out too long, and be a good boy, remember.”
Schmidt, who was standing on the pavement, sniggered: “You are his little baby.”
Gian-Luca grew scarlet. “I am sixteen,” he said hotly; “at sixteen one is not a baby.”
Schmidt whistled and merrily twirled his cane. His hat was too small for his head; he looked vulgar and foolish with a rosebud in his coat, and an imitation diamond in his tie. Gian-Luca eyed him with disapproval, and decided that he could not endure him. But presently Schmidt said:
“I have heard the Padrona—she praised you today to that husband.”
“Did she?” breathed Gian-Luca, trying to keep calm. “Do you think you could remember what she said?”
Schmidt pretended to think hard, and after a minute he invented a little conversation. He watched Gian-Luca from the corner of his eye; he was inwardly splitting with laughter. “Did she really say that?” Gian-Luca kept repeating.
“Jawohl,” smiled the mendacious Schmidt. Then he suddenly got bored—“I shall follow that girl, look how pretty she is, she have got die small feet! You come on, Gian-Luca, perhaps we can speak—you make love, I let you this time, and that way you forget all about your Padrona for a while, and that do you good.”
Gian-Luca turned and left him in disgust, his soul had been deeply outraged. It was almost as though Schmidt had spat in the face of something very pure and sacred. He felt, too, as though he himself had been to blame, as though he had exposed her to this. “Oh, forgive me!” he murmured. “My very dear, forgive me. My beautiful—my good—my holy—”
XII
I
Two days later the Padrona said to Gian-Luca: “Would you like to come upstairs and have tea with me? It is terribly hot down here.”
She was neither so sly, nor so stupid, nor so wanton as Teresa had proclaimed her to be; indeed at that moment she felt purely maternal—she was sorry for the pale-faced boy.
Gian-Luca hastily tore off his apron. “Signora!” he murmured. “Signora—”
“Come along then, you look tired—you work harder than them all, my husband was saying so this morning.”
He followed her upstairs and into a room that smelt of her favorite scent; it was crammed with the carved walnut furniture so dear to the Venetian heart. The chairs and the settee were upholstered in plush which stuck to your clothes as you sat. There were endless colored photographs of Venice on the walls, and over the fireplace hung an oleograph depicting the Holy Family. A large tea-table was already set out, it was generously supplied with cakes; Gian-Luca had seen them in the process of baking—Moscatone liked the Padrona.
“Sit down,” she said, pointing to a little armchair. “Will you have tea or coffee, Gian-Luca?”
“Whichever you prefer, signora—” he faltered.
She laughed and gave him some coffee. It was not very easy to make him talk, he kept flushing and paling, by turns. To everything she said he replied:
“
