"I don't need any one when I am asleep," the engineer answered. "Other people may be mad, but I am not. Put my milk and the lamp here."
It was Christmas Eve and the mad idea these otherwise sane people had conceived, the determination which seemed so incomprehensible to Uncle Piero, was to go to the solemn Midnight-Mass at S. Mamette.
"And that innocent victim also!" said he, glancing at the child.
Franco flushed hotly, and declared that he wished to prepare precious memories for her. He believed this excursion at night, in the boat, on the dark lake, the snow, the crowded and brightly lighted church, the organ, the singing, the holy associations of Christmas, would prove to be such. He spoke with heat, perhaps not so much for the uncle as for some one who was silent.
"Yes, yes, yes," said Uncle Piero, as if he had expected this rhetoric, this useless poetry.
"I am going to have some punch, too, you know!" said the child. The uncle smiled. "That is not bad! That will indeed form a precious memory!" Franco frowned at beholding his frail structure of poetical and religious memories thus demolished.
"And Gilardoni?" Luisa asked.
"Here they are now," Ismaele said, going out with his lantern.
Professor Gilardoni had invited the Maironis and Donna Ester Bianchi to come to his house for punch after Mass. He was now expected from Niscioree, whither he had gone to fetch the young lady, who had lived there alone with two maid-servants since her father's death, which had taken place in 1852. The worthy Professor had mourned secretly for Signora Teresa for a reasonable length of time, but during the convalescence of his heart, which kept him weak and languid, and in permanent danger of a relapse, he had not been careful enough of the merry little face, the lively eyes, and sparkling gaiety of the little Princess of Niscioree, as the Maironis called Donna Ester.
At seven-and-twenty Donna Ester looked like a girl of twenty, save in her movements there was a certain languor, and in her eyes a certain delicious hidden knowledge. She had not intended to fish for this respectable lover, but now she knew he was caught, and she was pleased, believing him to be a man of great genius, and infinite wisdom. That he should ever dare speak to her of love, that she might marry all this sallow, wrinkled, dry knowledge, had never entered her head. Nevertheless she did not wish to quench this little fire, which was so discreet, which was an honour to her, and probably a source of happiness to him. If she sometimes laughed about him with Luisa she was never the first to laugh, and always hastened to repeat: "Poor Signor Gilardoni! Poor Professor!"