The Italian said these last words through his teeth, and hanging his head. He said them in shame.
"My mother—(so Violante always called Jemima)—my mother, you have spoken to her?"
"Not yet. There is the difficulty."
"No difficulty, for she loves you so well," replied Violante, with soft reproach. "Ah, why not also confide in her? Who so true? so good?"
"Good—I grant it!" exclaimed Riccabocca. "What then? 'Da cattiva Donna guardati, ed alla buona non fidar niente,' (from the bad woman, guard thyself; to the good woman trust nothing.) And if you must trust," added the abominable man, "trust her with anything but a secret!"
"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her father's humours too well to interpret his horrible sentiments literally—"fie on your consistency, Padre carissimo. Do you not trust your secret to me?"
"You! A kitten is not a cat, and a girl is not a woman. Besides, the secret was already known to you, and I had no choice. Peace, Jemima will stay here for the present. See to what you wish to take with you; we shall leave to-night."
Not waiting for an answer, Riccabocca hurried away, and with a firm step strode the terrace and approached his wife.
"Anima mia," said the pupil of Machiavel, disguising in the tenderest words the cruellest intentions—for one of his most cherished Italian proverbs was to the effect, that there is no getting on with a mule or a woman unless you coax them—"Anima mia,—soul of my being—you have already seen that Violante mopes herself to death here."