"Where is Faustina Montevarchi?" asked Giovanni, as though it were the most natural question in the world.
"Faustina?" repeated Corona. "In the drawing-room, to be sure. I have not seen her."
"She is not there," said Sant' Ilario, in a more anxious tone. "I thought she had come here with you."
"She must be with the rest. You have overlooked her in the crowd. Come back with me and see your son—he does not seem to mind revolution in the least!"
Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina was in the house, entered the nursery with his wife, and they stood together by the child's cradle.
"Is he not beautiful?" exclaimed Corona, passing her arm affectionately through her husband's, and leaning her cheek on his shoulder.
"He is a fine baby," replied Giovanni, his voice expressing more satisfaction than his words. "He will look like my father when he grows up."
"I would rather he should look like you," said Corona.
"If he could look like you, dear, there would be some use in wishing."
Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy little boy, who lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back above his head and his two little fists tightly clenched. The rich blood softly coloured the child's dark cheeks, and the black lashes, already long, like his mother's, gave a singularly expressive look to the small face.