Well, the lesson went on slowly with frequent interruptions from the Maestro, who was satisfied with nothing less than perfection, and I breathed according to directions, sang "ah!" "eh," "ee's" in a tiny, tiny voice, until at the end of the hour I was glad to sit down and rest before departing. I felt tired out, I felt hungry, and, as the weather was bad, I felt cross, but at the same time I felt curious to know what was the matter with Bianca.
The Maestro, having remarked encouragingly that I had the voice of a goose and would never sing in La Scala, relapsed into silence, evidently thinking of his colezione which was being prepared in the kitchen with some trouble, judging from the raised tones of Petronella's voice; and as Bianca still sat at the piano, striking random chords, there was nothing for me to do but to take my departure. She was not prepared to tell me her trouble, and indeed she had no reason to do so, but feeling anxious to aid the poor child if I could, I ventured to speak to her on the subject.
[CHAPTER V.]
LOST
While I was wondering which was the best way to approach this somewhat delicate matter, the door was flung open to its fullest extent and Petronella stalked majestically into the room. There was a wrathful look on her strongly marked features, and Bianca trembled in expectation of a storm. Both she and the Maestro were terribly afraid of Petronella, who ruled the household and looked after them as she would a couple of children, so now that she frowned they acted like children; and were cowed by her eagle eye. Petronella surveyed the three of us grimly, and, being satisfied that her entrance had produced an effect, spoke with a dramatic gesture that Rachel herself might have envied,--
"I am enraged to-day. Let no one speak to me." Neither the Maestro nor Bianca seemed inclined to accept this tread-on-the-tail-of-my-coat challenge, so Petronella looked from one to the other to see on whom she should pour out the vials of her wrath. Ultimately she chose Bianca.
"Ah, it is you, Signorina! it is you who enrage me. And for why? you ask. Holy Saints! you ask why. Because you sit there like a statue in the Duoma. Will that bring him back? say I. No, Signora, let the bad young man go. Ecco!"
"Guiseppe is not a bad young man," cried Bianca, rising angrily to her feet.
"Are you older than I am, piccola? No! Have you been married like I was? No! Then let me speak, child that you are. All men are bad--ask the Signor there! All men are bad!"
Petronella made a comprehensive sweep of her arms so as to indicate the whole masculine portion of the human race, and I, seeing an opportunity of finding out what was the matter, did not attempt to defend masculine depravity in any way, but artfully asked a question,--