“Yes, madam.”
“Really, I should not have thought so.”
I made a bow in return for this compliment, which in reality was only an insult; for if flattering to me it was insulting to the rest of my fellow-countrymen, and Marcoline thought as much for she made a little grimace accompanied by a knowing smile.
“I see that the young lady understands French,” said our flattering friend, “she laughs exactly in the right place.”
“Yes, she understands it, and as for her laughter it was due to the fact that she knows me to be like all other Venetians.”
“Possibly, but it is easy to see that you have lived a long time in France.”
“Yes, madam,” said Marcoline; and these words in her pretty Venetian accent were a pleasure to hear.
The gentleman who had taken the lady to her room said that she found her foot to be rather swollen, and had gone to bed hoping we would all come upstairs.
We found her lying in a splendid bed, placed in an alcove which the thick curtains of red satin made still darker. I could not see whether she was young or old, pretty or ugly. I said that I was very sorry to be the indirect cause of her mishap, and she replied in good Italian that it was a matter of no consequence, and that she did not think she could pay too dear for the privilege of entertaining such pleasant guests.
“Your ladyship must have lived in Venice to speak the language with so much correctness.”