One day he was sitting in his room, listening, with shut eyes and drowsy relish, to the voice of one of the two little cameristas who comprised the signorina’s ménage, and who would delight to come and read to him when invited. These were quite excellent little abigails, decorous as Molly could wish; with a taste for the lives of the Saints (male, if possible), and a devotion, of course, for Louis-Marie. He was always a lovely sentiment to such, with his angelic colouring, his piety, his gentle courtesy of manner towards the least of his inferiors. Each of these (pinks of morality within the recognised Italian conventions) adored him, and was never so happy as when bidden up to amuse her paragon with passages from his favourite anecdotes of the Saints.
And thus read Fiorentina, in her shrewd small chaunt:—
“St Pol de Leon took a fancy to travel, and walked over the sea one fine morning to the Isle of Batz. The governor of which, one de Guythure, greatly coveting a silver Mass bell belonging to the King of England, St Pol commandeth a fish of the sea to swallow and bring it thence to him. Which the fish hasting to accomplish, the bell itself on its arrival is found gifted with a miraculous power to heal, even in some cases more potent than the Saint’s own. Whereby St Pol is shown to be of less account than a little silver bell. And thereat he boweth himself to God’s rebuke, witnessing how that sanctity, no less than worldliness, shall be caused by Him to over-reach itself in any unjust employment of its privileges.”
She stopped—the book dropped into her lap—“Monsignore!” she whispered, appalled.
The invalid was leaning forward, his face livid, his hands grasping the arms of his chair. In the silence which ensued, a voice, a step in the room below, made themselves distinctly audible.
“Bonito!” he gasped; and fell back as if dying.
She flew to him, raised his head, petted and consoled him, feeling the ecstasy of her opportunity.
“There, weep with me, sweet saint!” she said; and indeed, in a little, his tears were mingling themselves with hers. Even this homely heart could compel his soft response. She thought the story was to blame.
“There, there!” she said, as if to a child; “if it has made a mistake in anything, God will forgive it.”
But he could hear nothing else than the voice beneath his feet. Inarticulate as it reached him, its tones, slow whispering on his brain, seemed measuring out its madness tap by tap.