“Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey from whom another monkey has snatched a nut?”
“No.”
“It is like this—”
With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into the likeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fierce simian cries.
“No, I can’t do it.”
With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling self again.
“Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the other way when he passes along the Marina where the women are bathing in the summer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you know how religious she is. But then, of course, men—that does not matter. Religion is for women, and they understand that quite well.”
The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. One virtue he had in the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom he considered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy never occurred to him.
“Mamma would hate it if we were saints,” he continued.
“I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension on that score,” said Artois.