"I must tell you," Pasotti went on, "that I feel satisfied. Your grandmother has her own opinions, and she has reached an age when opinions are not easily changed; you know her character; she is very firm, but after all, she is not heartless. She loves you, you know, and she suffers. There is a continuous struggle going on within her, between her sentiments and her principles; or, one might rather say, between her sentiments and her resentment. Poor Marchesa, it is painful to see how she suffers! But anyhow she is beginning to yield. Of course we must not expect too much. She is indeed yielding, but not sufficiently to break what sustains her—her principles I mean, especially her political principles."
Franco's eyes, his twitching jaws, a quivering of his whole person said to Pasotti: "Woe to you if you touch upon that point!" Pasotti stopped. Perhaps he was thinking of the cane of the late Don Alessandro.
"I understand your feelings," he continued. "Do you think I don't? I eat the government's bread, and must keep what I feel shut up in my heart, but, nevertheless, I am with you. I sigh for the moment when certain colours shall replace certain others. But your grandmother holds different opinions, and there is nothing for it but to take her as she is. If we want to arrive at an understanding we must take her as she is. You may seek to oppose her as I myself did, but——"
"All this talk appears to me perfectly useless," Franco exclaimed, rising.
"Wait!" Pasotti added. "The affair may not prove as disagreeable as you think! Sit down and listen."
But Franco would not hear of resuming his seat.
"Out with it, then!" said he, his voice ringing impatiently.
"First of all your grandmother is prepared to recognise your marriage——"
"How kind!" Franco put in.
"Wait!—--and to make you a suitable allowance: from what I heard I should think of from six to eight thousand svanziche a year. Not bad, eh?"