Gigi's wife came. She was a tall, stalwart, blackbrowed, red-cheeked young woman, and her name (Gigi's eyes flashed proudly, as he announced it) her name was Carolina Maddalena.
Peter had to be in and out of Marietta's room all day, to see that she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.
But next day she was manifestly worse.
“Yes—bronchitis, as I feared,” said the doctor. “Danger? No—none, if properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a sister.”
“Thank you very much. I hope you will,” said Peter.
And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent. But sometimes she had to send for Peter.
“She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you,” the sister said.
Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of mastery.
“Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You must not disobey the Signorino.”
And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter holding the cup to her lips.