“Things that are not very creditable, eh?” I asked, regarding his weird, almost grotesque figure in ill-fitting black coat and crumpled shirt-front.
He hesitated as though unwilling to tell me the whole truth. He was always reserved regarding any person of bad character, and, generally speaking, a Tuscan never cares to denounce his compatriots to a foreigner.
“If I were you, signore,” he said, “I’d have nothing to do with any gobbo.”
“But I’ve bought several good manuscripts from him,” I argued.
“The signore must please himself,” he remarked. “I have warned him.”
I really did not desire any warning, for the mysterious appearance of the old hunchback’s face at the church window was sufficient to cause me grave suspicion. But Nello for three years past had exercised a kind of paternal care over me, seeming to regard with wonder that I could scribble piles upon piles of paper and get paid for it. It was really wonderful how I wrote roman, he often declared. He read two of them translated into Italian and published serially in the Tribuna, and kept the copies neatly tied in bundles, which he proudly showed to his friends as the work of his padrone.
“Well, had I better see the gobbo?” I asked.
“No, signore, I would not,” was his prompt advice. “He has no business to come here. His place is in the piazza, and it is impudence to call upon a gentleman.”
“Then tell him I’m engaged. I’ll want nothing more tonight. Don’t disturb me.”
“Benissimo, signore; buona notte.” And old Nello went softly out well satisfied, leaving me to my coffee and my old manuscript.