As to her, she by no means perceived the effect she had produced. She was anxious to hear all I had been doing while absent, and asked me one question after another with the same familiarity with which we used to converse when side by side. Glad to be able to open my heart in this way, I forgot, when I began, all I had to say if I would conceal nothing from her. But my account soon became confused, and I suddenly stopped.
“Gina mia!” said she, “you do not tell me everything. Why is this? Is it because you think I no longer take any interest in your worldly affairs?”
“It is not that alone, Livia, but it is really very difficult to speak of Paris and the senseless life I led there before this grate and while looking at you as you are now.”
“I shall always take as much pleasure in listening to you,” said she, “as you do in talking to me. I admit, when our good aunt, Donna Clelia, comes to see me with her daughters, I often assume a severe air, and tell them what I think of the world; ... but I must confess my aunt does not get angry with me, for she depends on my vocation to procure husbands for Mariuccia and Teresina, who are worthy of them, because, as she says, a person who consecrates herself to God brings good-luck to all the family. She no longer regards me as a jettatrice, I assure you!”
She laughed as she said this, and I could not help exclaiming with surprise and envy:
“Livia, how happy you are to be so cheerful!”
Her face resumed its usual expression of sweet gravity, as she replied:
“I am cheerful, Gina, because I am happy. But you were formerly livelier than I. Why are you no longer so, my dear sister? Cheerfulness is for those whose souls are at peace.”
“O Livia!” I cried, not able to avoid a sincere reply to so direct a question, “my heart is heavy with sorrow, I assure you, and the cheerfulness you speak of is frequently wanting.”
She started with surprise at these words, and questioned me with an angelic look.