“When you have done that,” said she “come and talk to Teresa, my friend I spoke to thee of, that hath a husband not good for much, which brags his acquaintance with the great.”
Gerard went down, and who should Teresa be but the Roman matron.
“Ah, madama,” said he, “is it you? The good dame told me not that. And the little fair-haired boy, is he well is he none the worse for his voyage in that strange boat?”
“He is well,” said the matron.
“Why, what are you two talking about?” said the landlady, staring at them both in turn; “and why tremble you so, Teresa mia?”
“He saved my child's life,” said Teresa, making an effort to compose herself.
“What! my lodger? and he never told me a word of that. Art not ashamed to look me in the face?”
“Alas! speak not harshly to him,” said the matron. She then turned to her friend and poured out a glowing description of Gerard's conduct, during which Gerard stood blushing like a girl, and scarce recognizing his own performance, gratitude painted it so fair.
“And to think thou shouldst ask me to serve thy lodger, of whom I knew nought but that he had thy good word, oh, Fiammina; and that was enough for me. Dear youth, in serving thee I serve myself.”
Then ensued an eager description, by the two women, of what had been done, and what should be done, to penetrate the thick wall of fees, commissions, and chicanery, which stood between the patrons of art and an unknown artist in the Eternal City.