The good Senator had never before encountered a thorough woman of the world, and was as ignorant as a child of the innumerable little harmless arts by which the power of such a one is extended and secured. At last the Senator came to this conclusion. _La Cica_ was desperately in love with him.
She appeared to be a widow. At least she had no husband that he had ever seen; and therefore to the Senator's mind she must be a spinster or a widow. From the general style in which she was addressed he concluded that she was the latter. Now if the poor _Cica_ was hopelessly in love, it must be stopped at once. For he was a married man, and his good lady still lived, with a very large family, most of the members of which had grown up.
_La Cica_ ought to know this. She ought indeed. But let the knowledge be given delicately, not abruptly. He confided his little difficulty to his friend the Minister. The Minister only laughed heartily.
"But give me your opinion."
The Minister held his sides, and laughed more immoderately than ever.
"It's no laughing matter," said the Senator. "It's serious. I think you might give an opinion."
But the Minister declined. A broad grin wreathed his face during all the remainder of his stay at Florence. In fact, it is said that it has remained there ever since.
The Senator felt indignant, but his course was taken. On the following evening they walked on the balcony of _La Cica_'s noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming.
The conversation of a fascinating woman does not look so well when reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her expression or the deep tenderness of her well-modulated voice? Who indeed?
"Does ze scene please you, my Senator?"