"T. writes that at first I am to go into a newspaper office in Turin. Perhaps I shall find something better later on. If I don't earn enough to live on in the office, and nothing else turns up, I shall come back. Therefore all this must be kept perfectly secret—at least, for a time."
Uncle Piero was incredulous concerning the possibility of secrecy. "And how about the letters?" he inquired.
As to letters, it had been arranged that Franco should address his to the postoffice at Lugano, and Ismaele would take those from the family to Lugano, and bring back his. And what should they tell their friends? They had already said that Franco was going to Milan, on the eighth, on business, and would be absent perhaps a month, perhaps longer.
"It is not the most agreeable thing in the world to have to throw dust in people's eyes," the uncle said. "But however...! I am going to embrace you now, Franco, for I know you are leaving early to-morrow morning, and we shall hardly be alone together to-day. Good-bye, then. Once more, remember all my injunctions, and don't forget me. Oh, one thing more! You are going to Turin. As a government official I always did what I could to be of service to my country. I never conspired, and I would not conspire even now, but I have always loved my country. And so, salute the tricolour for me. Good-bye, my dear boy!"
Then Uncle Piero opened his arms.
"You shall come to Piedmont also, uncle," Franco said, as he rose from that embrace, greatly moved. "If I can only manage to earn money enough I shall send for you all."
"Ah no, my dear boy! I am too old, I shall not make another move."
"Very well, then. I myself will come next spring, with two hundred thousand of my friends."
"That's it! Two hundred thousand pumpkins! A fine idea! Fine hopes!—Oh! here is Signorina Missipipì."
Signorina Missipipì—thus the family called Maria in happy moments—came in, dignified and serious. "Good-morning, uncle. Will you say 'Missipipì' for me?"