‘Didn’t I!’ broke in the hag.
What consequences might have ensued from this last interruption must be left to mere guess, for the door of the chamber was now opened to its widest to admit a gentleman, who came forward with the air of one in a certain authority. He was no other than the Count of the night before, who had so generously thrown his protection over the strollers. Advancing to where the Prefetto sat, he leaned one arm on the table, while he spoke to him in a low voice.
The judge listened with deference and attention, his manner being suddenly converted into the very lowest sycophancy. When it came to his turn to speak, ‘Certainly, Signor Conte; unquestionable,’ muttered he. ‘It is enough that your Excellency deigns to express a wish on the subject,’ and, with many a bow, he accompanied him to the door. A brief nod to the youth Gerald was the only sign of recognition he gave, and the Count withdrew.
‘This case is prorogued,’ said the Prefetto solemnly. ‘The Court will inform itself upon its merits, and convoke the parties on some future day.’ And now the gendarmes proceeded to clear the hall, huddling out together plaintiffs and prisoners and witnesses, all loudly inveighing, protesting, denouncing, and explaining what nobody listened to or cared for.
‘Eh viva!’ exclaimed old Gaetana, as she reached the open air, ‘there’s more justice here than I looked for.’
CHAPTER XVI. THE POET’S HOUSE
It was late on the evening of the same day that Gerald received a message to say the Count desired to see him. No little jealousy was occasioned among his companions by this invitation. The Babbo deemed that, as ‘Impressario’ of the company, he ought himself to have been selected. Donna Gaetana was indignant that a mere Giovane was to occupy the responsible station of representing their dramatic guild; and even Marietta felt her eyes to swim, as she thought over this mere passing separation, and in her heart foreboded some ill to come of it. She, however, did her very best to master these unworthy fears. She washed the bloody stains carefully off his forehead. She combed and oiled his long silky hair. She aided him to dress in the one only suit that now remained of all his wardrobe—a page’s dress of light blue, with a little scarlet mantle, embroidered in silver, and a small bonnet surmounted by an ostrich feather. Nor was it without deep shame, and something very like open rebellion, that Gerald donned these motley habiliments.
‘The Count has not said that he wants me to exhibit before him—why am I to masquerade in this fashion?’
‘There is no choice for you between this “tinsel bravery” and the tattered rags, all blood-stained and torn, you wore last night.’ There they were, scattered about, the crushed and crumpled hat, the doublet torn to ribbons, the rapier smashed—all a wreck. ‘No, no, you could not appear in such a presence in rags like these.’ Still was Gerald irritated and angry: a sudden sense of shame shot through him as he saw himself thus alone, which, had the others been joined with him, he had doubtless never felt; and for the first time his station suggested the idea of humiliation.