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It is the once world-famous Teatro Farnese, raised in the year 1618 by Ranunzio Farnese for the marriage of Odoardo Farnese with Margaret of Austria.
"Oh, yes, now I remember: Maitre renard, par l'odeur alleche, Lui tint a peu pres ce langage: He! bonjour..." At this point Doretta, seeing that her father is not listening to her, breaks off her recitation. Signor Odoardo has, in fact, closed the book upon his forefinger, and is looking elsewhere. "Well, Doretta," he absently inquires, "why don't you go on?"
She lays her cheek against his, he presses her little head close, lest she should escape from him. He too is silent what can he say to her? It is growing dark, and the eyes of the cat Melanio begin to glitter in the corner by the stove. The man-servant knocks and asks if he is to bring the lamp. "Make up the fire first," Signor Odoardo says.
It is true that Signor Odoardo is a vigorous man, in the prime of life, but it is never wise to tempt Providence by needlessly risking one's health. But stay I begin to think that I have found a clue to his conduct. Opposite Signor Odoardo's window is the window of the Signora Evelina, and Signora Evelina has the same tastes as Signor Odoardo.
It is the once world-famous Teatro Farnese, raised in the year 1618 by Ranunzio Farnese for the marriage of Odoardo Farnese with Margaret of Austria.
The cloud has settled again upon Doretta's forehead, the same cloud that darkened it in the morning. Not a word is said of La Fontaine's fable. Instead, Signor Odoardo grumbles irritably: "This blessed room is as cold as ever." "Why shouldn't it be," Doretta retorts with a touch of asperity, "when you open the window every few minutes?"
"Oho," Signer Odoardo says to himself, "it is time to have this matter out." And, going up to Doretta, he takes her by the hand, leads her to the sofa, and lifts her on his knee. "Now, then, Doretta, why is it that you are so disagreeable to Signora Evelina?" The little girl, not knowing what to answer, grows red and embarrassed. "What has Signora Evelina done to you?" her father continues.
It is at once the presentiment of a new danger and the renewal of a bygone sorrow. Doretta was barely six years old when her mother died, and yet her remembrance is indelibly impressed upon the child's mind. And now it seems as though her mother were dying again. "When you have finished crying, Doretta, you may come here," Signor Odoardo says.
If there were more women like her, France and society would be very different. When the discussion was subsiding, Mademoiselle d' Argennes came to take me by the hand, and to present us to the queen of the salon. 'Here, my mother, are our Odoardo and Gildippe, she said.
"To-morrow morning, if you're not afraid of the snow." "Why not now? Why not at once?" "Gently gently. Good Lord, doesn't the child want her dinner first?" And Signor Odoardo, gently detaching himself from his daughter's embrace, rises and rings for the lamp. Then, instinctively, he glances once more towards the window.
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