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Updated: June 3, 2025
"I've done it for Italo when he was playing my accompaniment. For nobody else." "Mrs. Hawthorne, if that little man has become your singing-master, will you not intrust me with the honorable charge of likewise teaching you something? No, not painting. I should like to drill you in the pronunciation of that little man's name. It is Ceccherelli. Cec-che-rel-li. Cec-che-rel-li." She shook her head.
The "Royal March" of Italy was played, first baldly, then with manifold clinging and wreathing variations. Aurora signed to the servant to open the dining-room door. All three at the table sat in silence till the end of the piece. Gerald wondered what the evening caller could be who made the moments of waiting light to himself in this fanciful manner. "It's Italo," said Mrs. Hawthorne, rising.
"I call him Italo because I never can remember his other name. Come, let's go into the parlor." It was all rosily lighted. Candles set on the piano at each side of the music-rest enkindled glossy high lights on the nose-bump and forehead bosses of Signor Ceccherelli, who at Mrs. Hawthorne's appearance sprang up to salute. She reached him her hand, over which he deeply bowed.
"Yes," she agreed, achieving sobriety, "it's bad weather for laryngitis," and went on with the weather, dropping Italo. "It's been a mean sort of day, hasn't it? I haven't set foot outside. I was already feeling kind of blue and making up my mind to go to bed when Gaetano came with your present." There was an intimation in her glance that this event had not made the world appear any rosier.
On the battle- fields of Aquae Sextiae and Vercellae, of Chaeronea and Orchomenus, were heard the first peals of that thunderstorm, which the Germanic tribes and the Asiatic hordes were destined to bring upon the Italo- Grecian world, and the last dull rolling of which has reached almost to our own times. But in internal development also this epoch bears the same character.
The adjectives came rolling out irrepressibly. "Perhaps he is," Aurora said serenely; "but haven't you noticed, Stickly-prickly, that about some things you and I don't feel alike? Italo plays the piano in a way that perfectly delights me, he's good-hearted, and he makes me laugh. Isn't that enough?" "In short, you like him. You like so many people, Mrs.
Gerald gave a sound of raging disgust. Aurora waited, watching him. "Was it very bad?" she asked finally, and held her breath for his answer. "Just as bad as possible. Ceccherelli deserves to be flayed. Is the man mad? And what, may I ask, did you say to De Brézé?" "I only remember it was something about ermine. I forgot until this moment that I meant to ask Italo what the joke was about ermine.
"Italo says," she began, after a silence such as often fell while she posed and he painted, "that Mr. Landini has the evil eye." "What rubbish!" "Glad to hear you say so. I don't believe there's any such thing, myself. But Italo swears there is, and has told me story upon story to prove it. He wants me to wear a coral horn and poke it at Mr. Landini whenever he comes near me."
"How do you suppose he found out about the black crow? For I'm perfectly sure he didn't know me at the time," said Aurora presently. "That might easily enough happen in some roundabout way," said Estelle, "as long as Italo and Clotilde both knew it. They might let the cat out of the bag without intending to. He talks so much. Never knew such a talker.
The last cannon was fired over the hero's grave, the music stopped. The ladies applauded. Gerald, smiling sickly, clapped his hands, too, without, it might have been observed, making any noise to speak of. Estelle went to the piano to compliment the player more articulately, and loitered there, practising her French while he perfected himself in English, by mutual aid. "Italo," Mrs.
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