“Very good; as you think so, I will tell him tomorrow.”
When dinner was over a feeling of curiosity made me go into the room where Annette was dining with the Venetian girl, whose name was Marcoline. I was struck with astonishment on seeing her, for she was completely changed, not so much by the pretty dress she had on as by the contented expression of her face, which made her look quite another person. Good humour had vanquished unbecoming rage, and the gentleness born of happiness made her features breathe forth love. I could scarcely believe that this charming creature before me was the same who had dealt such a vigorous blow to my brother, a priest, and a sacred being in the eyes of the common people. They were eating, and laughing at not being able to understand each other, for Marcoline only spoke Venetian, and Annette Genoese, and the latter dialect does not resemble the former any more than Bohemian resembles Dutch.
I spoke to Marcoline in her native tongue, which was mine too, and she said,—
“I seem to have suddenly passed from hell to Paradise.”
“Indeed, you look like an angel.”
“You called me a little devil this morning. But here is a fair angel,” said she, pointing to Annette; “we don’t see such in Venice.”
“She is my treasure.”
Shortly after my niece came in, and seeing me talking and laughing with the two girls began to examine the new-comer. She told me in French that she thought her perfectly beautiful, and repeating her opinion to the girl in Italian gave her a kiss. Marcoline asked her plainly in the Venetian manner who she was.
“I am this gentleman’s niece, and he is taking me back to Marseilles, where my home is.”
“Then you would have been my niece too, if I had married his brother. I wish I had such a pretty niece.”