"So should I, if you put me into a crucible," said Giulia, beginning to laugh; and her own little joke did more to make her see the bright side of things than all her cousin's wise saws.
"I know what I'll do," said she. "I'll write to Ferrante."
Ferrante was her only surviving brother.
"Ah, that is a good thought," said Vittoria. "He will be sure to help you."
So the Duchess wrote to Don Ferrante; and when Don Ferrante's answer came, which was not within a fortnight, he told her he was sorry to find she was embroiling herself again with her husband's relations; a contentious spirit was worse than a continual dropping: he feared she had had a little too much prosperity and petting: misfortunes were the lot of all, and it was vain to repine because a rose-leaf was doubled on our couch, &c., &c., &c. Think how many people were a great deal worse off, &c., &c., &c.
Clearly, there was no comfort to be had from Don Ferrante. So Giulia, getting another aggravating letter from Isabella, consulted the best lawyers in Naples; who advised her not to answer her, but to leave them to conduct the correspondence (for a consideration).
Then came so much parry and thrust, and tergiversation, and objurgation, and recrimination, that poor Giulia became seriously ill. Then the Marchioness of Pescara was very kind to her, and sat by her all day, and would have done so all night, but she fidgeted her to death, by what Giulia called preaching, though Vittoria only spoke what she meant for a word in season; and Giulia longed to tell her she would rather be nursed by her own maids.
"Ah, Leila!" said Cynthia, as she knelt, fanning her mistress, "I wish we were all back at Fondi."