“What letter?”
“The royal letter V.”
“What an odd chance!”
“You call it chance”—he smiled mysteriously.
“It is the sign.”
“Che pazzia (What madness)! what do you believe that little animal to be?”
“I believe what I believe, amico mio. The eyes of affection see what other eyes cannot see. It is a miracle, if you will, not more wonderful than others. The spirit of my august lady, the sovereign of England, has taken the shape of quella lumaca benedetta (that blessed snail)!”
Galli tamed the royal snail, kept it in cotton wool and rose-leaves, fed it on tender green leaves till it died,—when he forgot the whole matter.
Soon after J. came to Rome as an art student. Galli was “discovered” by some of the Spanish artists, then the most powerful group of painters in Rome. For the moment Galli’s only home was a large tree outside the Porta Salaria. Some boards laid between the branches made his bed; he shared the tree with a flock of friendly turkeys. He had been fairly comfortable through the summer and autumn; with December came the fierce tramontana, blowing away the leafy walls of his house. The artists—they are the most charitable people in the world—clubbed together, hired a room for Galli in the Via Flaminia—fancy the real old Flaminian way—and fitted it up nicely as a bedroom and studio. One bitter winter evening J. and Villegas—they also had studios in the Via Flaminia—on their way home chanced to look up at his window. Outside on an iron balcony stood Galli, with nothing on but a thin cotton nightshirt.