Once again I fancied that I heard a slight noise; but this time it was from the leads by the back staircase window; and upon whispering to Clara, she called me a stupid, nervous thing, and I heard it no more; but directly after, the rustling we heard told who were coming.
Five minutes passed and there was more rustling amongst the leaves—an ejaculation in French—an expression in Italian—and a loud splash, as if a leg had fallen into the water; while directly after we could see them quite plainly, crawling along like two great tom-cats upon the edge of the lead cistern, till they were close under the window, in dreadfully awkward positions; for the big cistern had never had water in before all through the summer, on account of a little leak, and now—though, doubtless, the great place would be quite empty next day, it was brimful in consequence of the storm.
Yes, I remember perfectly fancying that they looked like cats, and I felt ashamed of myself for thinking so disrespectfully of them, and determined to be extra kind to Achille so as to mentally apologise—poor fellow! Of course they could not stand up to their waistcoats in soft water, so they had to stay on the edge, and, as we found out afterwards, they did come off so black—oh, so terribly black!—upon us, just as if we had had visits from the sweeps.
It was poor Achille who put his leg in the tank; and every time he moved I could hear the water make such a funny noise in his boot, just as if it was half full; and, oh, poor fellow, he was obliged to move every minute, and hold on by the window-sill as he knelt there, or else he would have had to stand up, and, being so much higher than where we where, I should have had to talk to his knees. It was just as bad for the poor Signor and Clara; and I certainly should have been imprudent enough to have asked them in, if I had not known how Achille would have dripped on the stones, and so betrayed us.
I could not help thinking about what Clara had said that evening, and it really did seem so tiresome; for there we all four were, if anything more close together than ever, and it grew thoroughly puzzling sometimes to know who was meant when Pazzoletto whispered “Cava mia,” or “Bellissima,” or “Fanciullina,” or “Carissima;” or Achille murmured “Mon amie,” “Ma petite,” or “Beaux yeux;” and I often started, and so did Clara, at such times.
But there, who could expect to enjoy the roses of love without the thorns? And yet, I don’t know how it was, there seemed to be something wrong altogether that night; for I heard Clara gape twice, and I had to cover my mouth to stay more than one yawn, while I’m sure the gentlemen both wanted to go; though, of course, I could make plenty of excuses for poor Achille—he must have been so wet and uncomfortable—though I did offer to lend him my handkerchief to wipe away some of the water.
I should think that we had been carrying on a whispered conversation for about a quarter of an hour, when all at once I exclaimed in a deep whisper—
“Hush!—what was that?” We all started; for as I spoke, startled by the click as of a window fastening, there was the sound of an opening sash. A light flashed out above our heads, and shone upon the skylight, the leads, and the back staircase window, when if there, quite plain, was not a policeman standing by a figure at the latter. Then there was a hurrying scramble, and the shutting of a sash; and we could hear voices, while we all stood in the shade, silent as mice, and trembling so that the gentlemen had to hold us tightly.
“Von sbirro veseet de maiden,” said the Signor, in a whisper.
“Oh! what shall we do?” gasped Clara.