They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino looked at his pointed boots for a moment in silence, pushing forward his under lip until his blond mustache touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he began to laugh, still looking before him.
“Emilio! Emilio!”
He shook his head repeatedly.
“Emilio mio! And that you should be asking me to show you Naples! It is too good! C’est parfait!”
The Marchesino turned towards Artois.
“And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, the white-haired protectress of the strangers! Emilio—you might have come to me! But you do not trust me. Ecco! You do not—”
Artois understood.
“You saw me last night?”
“Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know that the Galleria is full—but full—of eyes?”
“Va bene! But you don’t understand.”