“No, signora.” Or, “Prego, signora.” Beyond this he seemed incapable of speech, nor was he enjoying his tea.
“Now do not be prim and shy,” she said smiling; “at this moment we are just two friends. Downstairs you are a waiter and I am your Padrona; up here you are Gian-Luca and I am your friend. You think that is strange? But it is not strange at all, I have been to call on your Nonna.”
“Have you?” said Gian-Luca. “Oh, but that was kind, signora!” He had not been told of the visit.
She waved this aside: “We have business dealings, and in business it is always best to be friendly. Now tell me about yourself, Gian-Luca; are you happy with us at the Capo?”
“Signora—” he began, then stopped abruptly, unable to control his voice.
“Well, go on, my child.”
“I am more than happy—I—I am no longer lonely.”
She looked at him with interest in her large blue eyes, she had heard a little of his story. “Were you lonely before, then, povero bambino?” she said softly. “It is wrong that the young should be lonely.”
“I have always been very lonely,” he told her, suddenly not feeling shy any more; “you see I had only got myself before I came here, signora.”
“And now, Gian-Luca?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Now I have got you,” he said quite simply; “and so I no longer feel lonely.” His queer, limpid eyes were full upon her, innocent, ardent, unashamed. “When one may see you every day, signora, and be near you, and hope to please you and serve you, then one is blessed—one grows and grows—something inside one blossoms.”
“You are a queer child!” she said, flushing slightly. “You are a strange boy, Gian-Luca—yet if I had a son I would wish him to be like you.” And she suddenly took his hand.
His fingers closed quickly and strongly over hers, and stooping he kissed the little scar. “I have so often wondered if it hurt—” he whispered. “I have so often wondered if it hurt.”
She sat very still with her hand in his—for a long time she did not speak; then she said: “No, it did not hurt very much, Gian-Luca—not as much as you are hurting me now.”
He started. “I am hurting you now, signora?”
And she could not help smiling at the horror in his face; then she grew very grave. “Yes, my child, you are hurting—because I think you grow too fond. You are so young, Gian-Luca, and I am quite old, therefore you must not get angry. I am old enough to be your mother, remember—that is, very nearly,” she added.
“But can one ever be too fond?” he asked her; “is it not beautiful to love?”
“It is beautiful,” she told him, “but not always wise, especially for you who do all things intensely. I have watched you, piccino—as you work, so you would love, and life being what it is, that makes me fearful for you.” She let her gaze rest on his questioning face—she was strangely disturbed and sorry. She thought: “Calf love: it is natural enough—it always begins for an older woman, but I must be more careful—yet what can it matter, he is perfectly safe with me.” Then she thought: “If Cesare knew, what a fury! Ma che! That man is an imbecile. It is always the same, this thing we call love; it pretends, we pretend, but it is always the same—” Yet her skeptical thoughts did not quite reassure her. “Gian-Luca,” she said, “what will happen to you when you come face to face with real life? You are so quiet, so self-assured—you are old for your age, but if all the while you burn up inside, as I think you do, what will happen to the poor Gian-Luca?”
He smiled. “Signora,” he said very gently, and his voice sounded suddenly mature; “signora, I have never had anyone before, I have only had myself, just Gian-Luca. It had to be so—it could not be helped—I had not even a country. I was born all wrong—I had no name, signora; that is why they called me Boselli. I loved my grandmother when I was a child, but she did not want me—I wounded. That was not her fault—she hated my eyes, and also my hair, I remember. At first I was angry and then very sad, and then I wrote out a motto. I wrote: ‘I have got myself.’ For you see, everyone must have something—” He paused, still smiling, as though at his thoughts; then he said: “But that is all over; now I no longer have such a motto, I have quite a new motto now.”
She could not resist it—she said: “And your new one?”
“Must I tell you?” he asked, but quite calmly.
“I think so—” she faltered, a little ashamed.
“ ‘I have got Gemma.’ It is that now,” he told her.
Once again she fell silent. He still held her hand—he was stroking it softly with his fingers. His face was very pale, very quiet, very earnest; his arrogant mouth looked composed and gentle, and his eyes were dropped to the hand he was stroking, as though it needed vigilance and care. The Padrona stirred and the movement seemed to rouse him for he looked up into her face. As he did so she smiled a little questioning smile, slightly raising her eyebrows. Then all of a sudden his composure left him, he became very much a child.
“Oh!” he burst out; “if the house would catch fire. If only the house would catch fire!”
“Madonna!” she exclaimed, and drew away her hand; “I hope that it will not—but why?”
“So that I could save you,” he said, flushing deeply; “so that I could rescue you, signora!”
Then she laughed, and he too laughed a little with embarrassment. “Forgive, signora,” he said shyly. At that moment who should walk in but the Padrone; he was all affability and smiles.
“Ah, Gian-Luca, so here you are.
