“La-la-la!” cried the physician, softly. “Why need we appear in the matter at all?”
“What do you mean?”
“It is only a question of terms with Le Marais—of sufficiently gilding the countenance it will give to a stolen union. They have no particular tenderness there for di Rocco, whose ugly countenance, for his part, is the only thing he has ever given them. The rest lies between you and your blood-brother.”
“I can bring a horse to the water—”
“Bah! he will drink. It is a Pierian spring. You will know when you see.”
“Shall I? And how about the lady?”
Bonito chuckled.
“For choice she has di Rocco!”
A voice at the door, little, and gloating, and jubilant, took up the word,—
“Di Rocco, di Rocco, di Rocco! What about him, you rogues? What about the knave of hearts, the gallant, the irresistible, the latter-day saint of love, who is going to be so blessed that he will need no physician, nor no runagate scamp to remind him of his days of unregeneracy?”