"And she returned the compliment immediately?" asked the Marchesa, slowly selecting a sugared chestnut from the plate beside her, turning it round, examining it and at last putting it into her mouth.
"How lightly you speak of what concerns life and death!" sighed San Miniato. "No—Beatrice did not answer immediately. I said much more—far more than I can remember. How can you ask me to repeat word for word the unpremeditated outpourings of a happy passion? The flood has swept by, leaving deep traces—but who can remember where the eddies and rapids were?"
"You are very poetical, caro mio. Your language delights me—it is the language of the heart. Pray give me one of those little cigarettes you smoke. Yes—and a light—and now the least drop of champagne. I will drink your health."
"And I both yours and Beatrice's," answered San Miniato, filling his own glass.
"You may put Beatrice first, since she is yours."
"But without you there would be no Beatrice, gentilissima," said the
Count gallantly, when he had emptied his glass.
"That is true, and pretty besides. And so," continued the Marchesa in a tone of languid reflection, "you have actually been making love to my daughter, beyond my hearing, alone on the rocks—and I gave you my permission, and now you are engaged to be married! It is too extraordinary to be believed. That was not the way I was married. There was more formality in those days."
Indeed, she could not imagine the deceased Granmichele throwing himself upon his knees at her feet, even upon the softest of carpets.
"Then I thank the fates that those days are over!" returned San Miniato.
"Perhaps I should, too. I am not sure that the conclusion would have been so satisfactory, if I had undertaken to persuade Beatrice. She is headstrong and capricious, and so painfully energetic! Every discussion with her shortens my life by a year."