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Updated: July 26, 2025
"I see no objection," said the Pretore. He glanced at the Cancelliere, a small, pale man, with restless eyes and a pointed chin that looked like a weapon. "Niente, niente!" said the Cancelliere, obsequiously. He was reading Artois with intense sharpness. The Maresciallo, a broad, heavily built man, with an enormous mustache, uttered a deep "Buon giorno, Signor Barone," and stood calmly staring.
No, never again, until I have said my prayers, and am just going to sleep, will I cry 'O giorno felice! as I did this afternoon, when the rain was pouring on me, but my heart was all in a glow." These pretty little lamentations of youth were interrupted by Mr. Severne slipping away from his friend, to try and recover lost ground.
In the space of a single mile or so the language of the inhabitants changes from the liquid accents of the Latin to the deep-throated gutturals of the German; the road signs and those on the shops are now printed in quaint German script; via becomes weg, strada becomes strasse, instead of responding to your salutation with a smiling "Bon giorno" the peasants give you a solemn "Guten morgen."
Adelle always said "bon giorno" when she ran across them toiling up the slippery paths with their loads of stone or cement. She liked the way in which they showed their teeth and touched their hats politely to "la signora." They had a feeling for her as the mistress of the house, a latent sense of feudal loyalty to their employer that had quite disappeared among the other workmen.
He can drive four-in-hand, swim for any number of hours without tiring, ride well, as an Italian cavalry officer can ride, and that is not badly. His accomplishments? He can speak French abominably, and pick out all imaginable tunes on the piano, putting instinctively quite tolerable basses. I don't think he ever reads anything, except the Giorno and the Mattino.
I was trembling under her touch trembling, my every nerve a-quiver and my breath shortened and suddenly there flashed through my mind a line of Dante's in the story of Paolo and Francesca: "Quel giorno piu non vi leggemo avanti." Giuliana's words: "Let us read no more to-day" had seemed an echo of that line, and the echo made me of a sudden conscious of an unsuspected parallel.
The donkey-man reddened visibly and fumbled with his hat. 'My dear, her father warned, 'he understands English. She continued to gaze with the open admiration one would bestow upon a picture or a view or a blue-ribbon horse. The man flashed her a momentary glance from a pair of searching grey eyes, then dropped his gaze humbly to the ground. 'Buon giorno, he said in glib Italian.
Upon the forefinger of his left hand he displayed a thick snake-ring of tarnished metal, and he had a large, overblown rose in his button-hole. His mustaches had been carefully waxed, his hair cropped, and his hawklike, subtle, and yet violent face well washed for the great occasion. With bold familiarity he seized Maurice's hand. "Buon giorno, signore. Come sta lei?" "Benissimo."
His father's dear old friend! Julien could not refuse to go, though he feared it was a hopeless case. Angina pectoris, and a third attack at seventy years of age! Would it even be possible to reach the sufferer's bedside in time? "Due giorno, con vento," said Sparicio. Still, he must go; and at once.
As it approaches, it turns suddenly up from its quadrupedal position, takes off its hat, shows a broad, stout, legless torso, with a vigorous chest and a ruddy face, as of a person who has come half-way up from below the steps through a trap-door, and with a smile whose breadth is equalled only by the cunning which lurks round the corners of the eyes, says, in the blandest and most patronizing tones, with a rising inflection, "Buon giorno, Signore!
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