Teresa. The poor marchioness indeed! well, Benedetto, for my part I feel no pity for misfortunes which people bring upon themselves. Why did not the marchioness take her daughter with her to the court of Naples? why did a mother ever consent to trust her daughter out of her sight! but forsooth she must be left behind in a convent, where soon afterwards an epidemic complaint attacks the sisterhood, and Josepha, abandoned to the care of strangers, sinks into an untimely grave, the victim of her mother’s neglect and imprudence.
Ben. But the dangers of the voyage—Her confessor had so often assured her that Josepha would be more safe in the convent—
Teresa. More safe? more safe indeed: where can a daughter be more safe than in the arms of her mother? and then as to her confessor—
Pietro. What, the prior of St. Mark’s? he with that humble hypocritical air—who speaks so softly and bows so low—
Teresa. Ay, ay; the same—oh, I can’t bear the sight of him!
Pietro. Nor I.
Giovanni. Nor I.
Ben. Stop, stop! not so violent, my good friends, not so violent; for as to the prior, you must permit me to tell you that for my part, I can’t say I like him any better than yourself. And yet, signor Venoni, who is a man of great sense, believes that since the world was a world, there never was such a saint as this father Cœlestino!
Teresa. Ah! poor signor Venoni! where is he now, Benedetto?
Ben. Still in St. Mark’s monastery, whither he fled in despair on losing his destined bride, the lady Josepha.