‘That have I written,’ says the scrivano at last. ‘What next?’
‘And next, next! You shall put that he does too much honour to a poor peasant girl such as I.’ Again the pen moves warily over the paper, and this sentence takes long to indite, for it can be inflated with many a fine word and sentiment; but in time the scrivano looks up for fresh matter. The girl is sorely perplexed, indeed.
The Love Letter.
The fine steel pen proceeds to work, and makes a few flourishes on the pink paper, while the girl looks on, eager and intent.
‘But, vossignoria, who knows Latin,’ says she again, ‘can you not put together a fine letter?’
‘That can I do, my daughter; but do you wish me to say he shall come and see you or no?’
‘Well, you will understand, vossignoria, this is about how it is. Pietro Gambari is a rich young man, and I am only a contadina. For me, I should not mind being a miller’s wife, but it is not enough that the man tells me I am graziosa, and would give me earrings.’
‘The Virgin forbid!’ ejaculates Frà Giuseppe.