“They are exactly the noble family’s taste,” said the doratore, replacing his cap with an air of finality. “She said cinquanta lire—she shall have them for quaranta!”
Recognizing that this incident was closed, Loki’s aunt thought she would do a deal on her own account, and picking up a little antique frame, fell back on the only Italian word she knew:
“Quanto?”
The doratore unexpectedly priced the frame at twenty-five lire, and cheap at that, and all of a sudden the little shop was filled with confusion. The would-be purchaser wished to take away her prize, the doratore, misunderstanding, vociferated that nothing would be broken on the sea-journey; the Lancashire maid struck in with English addresses for the other wares; finally, the candle-bearer was sent flying round the corner to fetch a friend who, by the grace of God, had the gift of tongues.
Breathless, he returned, with a bundle of rags hobbling along on a crutch, by his side.
“Benissimo!” exclaimed the doratore, with a sigh of relief. “This gentleman, signora, is a friend of all the artists in Rome! He knows English, French, German—everything!”
He then performed the ceremonious rites of introduction! “Signor Guiseppi Renzo, a person of great worth and learning.—The noble lady belonging to the family of my cherished patrons, i Castelli.”
The bundle of rags swept off its battered hat with a flourish, disclosing a wall-eye and a three-weeks-old beard, and remarked, in Italian, that the weather was beautiful for the time of the year.
“But not so beautiful as in spring,” said the doratore encouragingly. Upon which Loki’s aunt bowed too, and smiled and murmured, “Oh! si, si—I mean no.” And then feeling dreadfully uncouth and ill-mannered in presence of so much courtesy, picked up her frame again and looked helpless. Instantly the interpreter warmed to his office. In fluent if curious English, he ascertained her wishes, and then communicated them with much gesticulation to the doratore, who slapped a fat forehead, exclaiming in a contrite manner, “Va bene, va bene!” Finally, the imp was dispatched on a last errand in search of a little open carriage, and having carefully wrapped the frame in a copy of the “Corriere” produced from his own pocket, the bundle of rags hobbled out into the Piazza, where he and the doratore stood bareheaded to wish the ladies a safe journey to England, and a speedy return to Rome.