“Carlo,” said he, “I love your sister, and would have her for my wife. Will you consent?”
“By the body of Bacchus, what is this you say?” said the other, drawing his arm away, and looking up into the German’s face.
“Simply that she has consented and your mother. Are you willing that I should be your brother?”
“This is madness,” said Carlo Pepé.
“On their part, you mean?”
“Yes, and on yours. Were there nothing else to prevent it, how could there be marriage between us when this war is coming?”
“I do not believe in the war; that is, I do not believe in war between us and Italy. No war can affect you here in Venice. If there is to be a war in which I shall be concerned, I’m quite willing to wait till it be over.”
“You understand nothing about it,” said Carlo, after a pause; “nothing! You are in the dark altogether. How should it not be so, when those who are over you never tell you anything? No, I will not consent. It is a thing out of the question.”
“Do you think that I am personally unfit to be your sister’s husband?”
“Not personally, but politically and nationally. You are not one of us; and now, at this moment, any attempt at close union between an Austrian and a Venetian must be ruinous. Von Vincke, I am heartily sorry for this. I blame the women, and not you.”