“Jump in, padre, we will take you home.”
“No, no. Thank you—it is impossible!”
I persisted.
“Drive on!” he cried impatiently to the gobbo. To me more gently, “It would not do for me to be seen driving with a lady.”
As the gobbo whipped up the old white horse, a crowded carriage containing four women and two foreign-looking priests passed us. I looked back at the parroco; he shrugged his shoulders, his lips formed the words, “What can you expect? They are French!”
“What did I tell you, Signora mia?” murmured the gobbo. “It would have been a scandal for the poor parroco to be seen driving with you!”
Wasn’t that slap at the French nice? The parroco served his two years in the army when he was young; he is a good Italian, a son of the soil, a son of the Church. The passions of his race are strong in him, and in spite of his cassock he hates a Frenchman!
Coming home late that evening we found behind our door a small wallet lined with coarse red morocco. It contained nothing but memoranda of modest expenditures:
Cab, one franc.
Candles, six sous.