A veiled young lady, coming from the direction of the Palazzo della Pilotta, hesitated an instant before setting foot on the crowded thoroughfare of the Ponte di Mezzo, and then made up her mind and went boldly forward. Half-way across, she just signed to a loiterer who stood leaning against the parapet, whereupon, detaching himself from his position, the man accompanied her footsteps, neither of them speaking a word. Making westward from the bridge—which continued across the water the main artery of traffic, that ancient Via Aemilia which exactly bisected the town—they presently reached a less frequented quarter; and, coming after a time to the open spaces neighbouring on the Barriera d’Azeglio, the girl at length, with a shrug of resignation, slackened her pace, and in the same moment invited her companion to speak.
“To have selected for a meeting place,” she exclaimed, “the most populous spot in the city! Bah! But I had no time to think.”
“What does it matter, Fanchette?”
She stopped, and looked at him, with a little fretful stamp of her foot.
“Are you tired of life that you say so?”
“Is my life in danger?”
“What do you suppose—here, in Parma?”
“I do not trouble myself to suppose anything.”
“You are too courageous to think of yourself, is it not? That would be very fine, if only sometimes you would think of other people.”
He looked at her meekly, without answering; nor did she speak for a little; but she had all the advantage of her veil in that mute inquisition.