“Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?” he said.
Questions blazed in his eyes. His hand closed more firmly on the Marchesino.
“Where did you take that child? What did you say to her? What did you dare to say?”
“I! And you?” said the Marchesino, sharply.
He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. “And you—you!” he repeated.
“I?”
“Yes—you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I at least am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate. I know what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I—I am ready to go naked into the sun before the whole world, and say, ‘There! There! This is Isidoro Panacci; and he is this—and this—and this! Like it or hate it—that does not matter! It is not his fault. He is like that. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that, and he is that—he is that!’ Do you hear? That is what I am ready to do. But you—you—! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!”
He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shook his head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently and repeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look came into his mobile face.
“The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above the follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl, and who is proud of loving her, and who knows that he loves her, that he wants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!”—he suddenly hissed out the words. “The man with the white hairs who might have had many children of his own, but who prefers to play papa—caro papa, Babbo bello!—to the child of another on a certain little island. Ah, buon Dio! The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; by whose side the little Isidoro seems only a small boy from college, about whom nobody need bother! How he is loved, and how he is trusted on the island! Nobody must come there but he and those whom he wishes. He is to order, to arrange all. The little Isidoro—he must not come there. He must not know the ladies. He is nothing; but he is wicked. He loves pleasure. He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidoro! Keep him out! Keep him away! But the great writer—with the white hairs—everything is allowed to him because he is Caro Papa. He may teach the Signorina. He may be alone with her. He may take her out at night in the boat.”—His cheeks were stained with red and his eyes glittered.—“And when the voice of that wicked little Isidoro is heard—Quick! Quick! To the cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it is dark, and he will never find us! Let us make him think we are at Nisida! Hush! the boat is passing. He is deceived! He will search all night till he is tired! Ah—ah—ah! That is good! And now back to the island—quick!—before he finds out!”—He thrust out his arm towards Artois.—“And that is my friend!” he exclaimed. “He who calls himself the friend of the little wicked Isidoro. P—!”—He turned his head and spat on to the balcony.—“Gran Dio! And this white-haired Babbo! He steals into the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He puts a girl of the town to live with the Signorina upon the island, to teach her—”
“Stop!” said Artois.