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"We will help you, master," said my father. And then he accepted, as he shook his head and smiled. "This is a beautiful day," he said, as he closed the outer door, "a beautiful day, dear Signor Bottini! I assure you that I shall remember it as long as I live." My father gave one arm to the master, and the latter took me by the hand, and we descended the lane.
"Carlo Bottini was in command of the ship, but he was killed at the commencement of the fight." "But how is it that one so young came to be second? You must belong to some great family to have been thus pushed forward above men so much your senior.
At the top was written, Alberto Bottini, Dictation, April 3, 1838. My father instantly recognized his own large, schoolboy hand, and began to read it with a smile. But all at once his eyes grew moist. I rose and inquired the cause. He threw one arm around my body, and pressing me to his side, he said: "Look at this sheet of paper. Do you see? These are the corrections made by my poor mother.
Then he said: "You do me too much honor. I do not know When were you my scholar? Excuse me; your name, if you please." My father mentioned his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he had attended school, and where, and he added: "It is natural that you should not remember me. But I recollect you so perfectly!"
The master bent his head and gazed at the ground in thought, and muttered my father's name three or four times; the latter, meanwhile, observed him with intent and smiling eyes. All at once the old man raised his face, with his eyes opened widely, and said slowly: "Alberto Bottini? the son of Bottini, the engineer? the one who lived in the Piazza della Consolata?"
Many of the young men he already knew as Matteo's friends, and by them he was received with the greatest cordiality; but his reception by the captain, and one or two of the other officers, was much more cool. The captain, whose name was Carlo Bottini, was a distant connection of the Mocenigo family, and was therefore already prejudiced against Francis.
In the third volume, the austere pathos of Pompilia's tale relieves the too oppressive jollity of Don Giacinto, and the flowery rhetoric of Bottini; while in the fourth, the deep wisdom, justice, and righteous mind of the Pope, reconcile us to endure the sulphurous whiff from the pit in the confession of Guido, now desperate, naked, and satanic.
"Bottini!" exclaimed the master at length, fixing his eyes on the brick floor where the sunlight formed a checker-board. "Oh! I remember well! Your mother was such a good woman! For a while, during your first year, you sat on a bench to the left near the window. Let us see whether I do not recall it. I can still see your curly head." Then he thought for a while longer. "You were a lively lad, eh?
The men received the address with a shout, and as soon as the commanders had regained their galleys, the fleet moved out to attack the enemy. The fight was a furious one, each vessel singling out an opponent and engaging her hand to hand. Carlo Bottini was killed early in the fight, and Francis succeeded to the command.
As you know, Parucchi, Carlo Bottini had been a long time at Constantinople and the Eastern ports, and had a somewhat luxurious taste. Do you not remember that, against the stern windows, he had caused to be erected a low wide seat running across the cabin? This he called a divan, and spent no small proportion of his time lolling upon it.
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