“If I was to repeat that in England,” I said, “I should either be accused of wilful exaggeration, or of being misled by party feeling.”
“The signorina is right!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is easy to conceive that these miserable puerilities, these minutiæ of despotism, are below the comprehension of a people who have never been denied either freedom of action or of speech.”
“This condition of things cannot last, however,” said the Conte Muzio, who, since the departure of the two codini, had become more animated; the presence of the old conte, so exulting over all those oppressed with matrimonial cares, always sensibly affecting him—so they afterwards told me—burdened as he was with five marriageable nieces, for whose sake he had long laid aside all projects for himself, devoting his little patrimony to augmenting his widowed sister's scanty resources. “No, no, it cannot last. From what my nephew writes me from Turin, of the steadiness of the ministry amidst the attacks of the two extreme parties—the Retrogrades and Republicans—and their determination to uphold the constitution to the utmost, I augur better times for ourselves. Let it be but consolidated by a few more years, that precious constitution, the only reality left of the dreams and hopes, and alas! the excesses of a period so bright in its dawning, so dark in its close—let this be, and all of us, lifting up our drooping heads, looking to Piedmont as our example and regenerator, will yet find those beautiful words, 'Italia unita,' are no delusion.”
“Then he is as enthusiastic as ever with his adopted country, your nephew, ehi?” inquired Checchino. “He is quite a Piedmontese.”
“He is Italian, I hope,” said Muzio, quietly. “I look for the day when that will be the only designation of all born within the length and breadth of the fairest country in Europe.”
“You are an optimist, caro, as well as the king of uncles. I hope we shall see him a general some day. Do you know, signorina,” turning to me, “that this unparalleled Conte Muzio, to gratify his nephew's martial genius, took him to Turin, and has placed him in the military academy, where——But who have we here at last? Signora Volunnia, I congratulate myself on seeing you so well. It appeared to me a thousand years till I saw you again!”
Volunnia received her cousin's greeting with great friendliness, reciprocating his compliments on the pleasure of meeting, but assured him her health was far from good, and announced that she purposed taking some cream of tartar the next morning as a rinfrescante, and would stay all day in bed. These particulars having elicited great sympathy from the assembled friends, she next playfully tapped the knight of Malta on the lower part of his waistcoat, remarking: “Ah, Checchino mio, comminci a metterti un po' di pancia,” which, delicately translated, signifies, “You are growing rather corpulent;” a proceeding I could not help looking upon as singular, especially after her strictures on English propriety.
Checchino, who evidently piqued himself upon his figure, bore the laugh this sally elicited with tolerably good grace, but revenged himself by telling Volunnia of the marriages of two or three young ladies in Rome whose mothers, he well knew, had been her contemporaries; and asked with tender interest after her sisters and their children, which last topic always irritated her extremely.
Then, when he thought her sufficiently punished, with the tact that is almost instinctive to an Italian, he brought back the conversation to the Conte Muzio's nephew, on whom the good uncle's hopes and affection were evidently centered.
“So he passed his examinations well on entering? That must have been a great consolation to you, after all the sacrifices you made, and the difficulties you had to overcome beforehand. Ah, it is a fine service, no doubt: the Piedmontese are soldiers!”