RITTA. Saints above!
I wonder if he ate her! Boil me—me!
I'll roast or stew with pleasure; but to boil
Implies a want of tenderness,—or rather
A downright toughness—in the matter boiled,
That's slanderous to a maiden. What, boil me—
Boil me! O! mercy, how ridiculous!
[Retires, laughing.
Enter a MESSENGER.
MESSENGER. Letters, my lord, from great Prince Malatesta.
[Presents them, and exit.
GUIDO. [Aside.] Hear him, ye gods!—"from great Prince Malatesta!"
Greeting, no doubt, his little cousin Guido.
Well, well, just so we see-saw up and down.
[Reads.]
"Fearing our treachery,"—by heaven, that's blunt,
And Malatesta-like!—"he will not send
His son, Lanciotto, to Ravenna, but"—
But what?—a groom, a porter? or will he
Have his prey sent him in an iron cage?
By Jove, he shall not have her! O! no, no;
"He sends his younger son, the Count Paolo,
To fetch Francesca back to Rimini."
That's well, if he had left his reasons out.
And, in a postscript—by the saints, 'tis droll!—
"'Twould not be worth your lordship's while to shut
Paolo in a prison; for, my lord,
I'll only pay his ransom in plain steel:
Besides, he's not worth having." Is there one,
Save this ignoble offshoot of the Goths,
Who'd write such garbage to a gentleman?
Take that, and read it. [Gives letter to CARDINAL.
CARDINAL. I have done the most.
She seems suspicious.
GUIDO. Ritta's work.
CARDINAL. Farewell!
FRANCESCA. Father, you seem distempered.
GUIDO. No, my child,
I am but vexed. Your husband's on the road,
Close to Ravenna. What's the time of day?