"If you like, I will read the story to you, as told by one of the old poets?"
"Do--and soon and--when do you return?" he asked, as Theodore arose.
"To-night," said the young man; "but not to read to you, for you are not well enough yet. I will not listen. I know what you are going say. But a sick man must not have a will of his own."
When he returned in the evening, he found wine upon the table, and a comfortable cushioned chair placed by the hearth. Bianchi slept, and the boy whispered that he had made him buy the wine and borrow the chair from a neighbour, and that he had not been quiet or slept until he had seen all done as he wished.
CHAPTER III.
The next evening Theodore read, from an old Italian "Ovid," the fable of the Medusa, as he had promised. He looked from time to time over his book towards Bianchi, whose eyes were fixed upon the ceiling. Theodore's calm voice seemed to bind him with a spell; the tale which he read, to move his innermost soul--so the other read on. When he arose, Bianchi drew a deep breath, and cried, "You are going!--you do not know how I have enjoyed it! These tales were to me but mutilated old statues, the limbs scattered about, the head far from the trunk, and all weather-beaten and decayed. As you read it, all drew itself together again, and now stands entire before me. Oh! that my arms were but sound again--my fingers tremble at the thought of kneading a piece of clay--but that is not to be--and you go--you smile! I can guess where you are going! well--enjoy your youth. But now I think for the first time of the nights I have made you pass."
"They would have been more lonely than they have been here--and you cannot guess where I go, Bianchi. I am going to pay court to two old people, and only now and then the soft hand of their daughter touches my arm in secret. All my enjoyment is seeing--hoping."
"And you can confess that so quietly, and not gnash your teeth with impatience and longing? I fear that I, too, once passed such a fruitless lovetime. Like a worm I grovelled on the ground, and cursed the eyes which had played me so bitter a trick."
"I bless them! And when I suspect such madness in my blood, I refresh my dull soul in the free air, up and down the Forum, or roam away to the Capucines, where now the snow is resting against the stem of the palm-tree; it must struggle through the winter, too, however warm its heart may be."
"Can you deny that it plagues and worries you more than the whole affair is worth? It makes one idle and womanly, and that is the worst of all. If we were not fools, longing for the impossible, all were well, one as good as another, if she were pretty and kind."