Gildo: Thank you very night and good much.
Myself: Bravo. If you go on at this rate you will soon be speaking English like a native.
I took leave of the young ladies, and Papa, Alessandro and Gildo accompanied me to the albergo, where they left me. As I approached my bedroom door I looked up over it half-expecting to see there the words which, years ago, I had seen written over the entrance to a Tuscan monastery:
O beata Solitudo!
O sola Beatitudo!
CHAPTER IV
MALAGIGI
Next morning I called on the buffo in his workshop. His two combustible Turkish pavilions were finished, ready to be fired by Ettorina, and he was full of his devils. I inquired why we were doing Guido Santo so soon; it was only a year since my last visit to Palermo, when I had witnessed his lamented end after a fortnight of starvation in prison, and, at this rate, the story would be over in fourteen months instead of lasting eighteen. The buffo said they had made the experiment of shortening it. If one has to shorten a story, probably the Paladins of France with its continuations would suffer less from the process than many others. At all events it could scarcely grow longer, as a work of art so often does when one tries to shorten it.
The devils were naturally among the dramatis personæ of the teatrino, but they had to be got ready and repaired and provided with all things necessary for them to make the subterranean road. I said:
“I am not sure that I quite followed all you told me last night.”
“There was perhaps a little confusion?” he inquired apologetically.
“Not at all,” I replied politely; “but I never heard of Argantino before. Did you say he was the son of Malagigi?”