“Ah, si,” was the unanimous voice.
“May your success be great, Armando mine!” said Bertino when they parted at the first curve of the pass. “Perhaps against your return I shall have famous news from America. Who knows? Good fortune be with you. Addio.”
“The saints be with you to a safe return,” said Marianna. “Addio, and good fortune.”
“Addio, carissimi amici.”
Sebastiano the carrier lifted the block from the wheel and the donkey moved on. Armando walked behind, keeping a watchful eye on the thing in the cart, which was in every shade of the term a reduced replica of Falguière’s inspiration.
“You must be very careful, Sebastiano,” said he. “Never in your life have you had such a valuable load on your cart.”
“Bah!” growled the driver. “Valuable! How many have you there? Are they all the same size? Do you mean to say that I never had a load as valuable as a boxful of Saint Peters? Oh, bello! Only last week did I haul a barrel of fine barolo to the Inn of the Fat Calf. Ah, my dear, that is a wine. Wee-ah! wee-ah!—Go on, you lazy one. That donkey is too careful.”
They reached their destination in Genoa without mishap. When the art dealer who had consented to look at it had bestowed on Armando’s work of a year a momentary survey, he turned to the sculptor, who stood hat in hand, and regarded him earnestly.
“Who told you to do this, dear young man?” he asked, removing his eyeglasses.
“Nobody, signore. It was my own idea.”