“Now order wine,” I said, “and we will drink.”
I sipped, while he sat on a stool at my feet, soothing the weariness from them with a touch that was only my monster’s. The Chianti and the sorcery of his hand began to drug me.
“Drink you too,” I murmured.
He reached for his glass.
“To whom?” he said. “What are we now? It makes no difference; only I must know.”
“Death to all republics,” I cried, “and long life to the King of Naples!”
“Ah!” he said, between a groan and a sigh. “Well—the poor child—you have cast her off, I suppose,” and he drained his glass.
I stared at him a moment, then fell sobbing upon his shoulder.
“You pity everyone but me,” I cried, “and my heart is broken.”
“What, in the old place?” said he.