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Updated: June 19, 2025
We were all young once upon a time, eh, Signora Orsola? And as for the Marchesino, he is as good a gentleman as any in Ravenna or out of it, for that matter. But he is young, Signora, he is young! And that's all the fault he has. Can I give him any message for you, Signora?"
No wonder that men like Galeazzo and the Marchesino, who had shared Beatrice's pleasures, and had seen her so lately foremost in the chase and gayest in dance and song, wept when they saw her lying there cold and lifeless. As the chroniclers one and all tell us, "Such grief had never been known before in Milan."
Almost immediately behind her was Vere. The Marchesino looked openly amazed for a moment, then even confused. He stared first at Hermione, then at Vere. "I am sorry, Madre; I was kept for a moment," the girl said. "Are you coming up-stairs?" "The Marchese says he must go, Vere. He is determined not to deprive us of our siesta."
There was a sound almost of irritation in Vere's voice. "He has been working very hard." "Oh, I see." Her voice had softened. "The Marchesino is coming here to lunch to-morrow." "Oh, Madre!" "Does he bore you? I had to ask him to something after accepting his dinner, Vere." "Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right."
And then a strange desire rose up in Artois, a desire to protect Vere against her own mother. But how could that be done? Vere, guarded by the beautiful unconsciousness of youth, was unaware of the subtleties that were brought into activity by her. That the Marchesino was, or thought himself, in love with her she realized. But she could not connect any root-sincerity with his feeling.
"Che bella notte!" said the Marchesino, suddenly. His voice sounded sentimental. He twisted his mustaches and added: "Emilio, we ought to have brought two beautiful women with us to-night. What are the moon and the sea to men without beautiful women?" "And the fishing?" said Artois. "To the devil with the fishing," replied the young man. "Ecco! Our dinner is ready, with thanks to the Madonna!"
Before Hermione could reply the Marchesino exclaimed: "Signorina, in the breast of an angel you have the heart of a lion! The sea will never harm you. How could it? It will treat you as it treats the Saint of your pool, San Francesco. You know what the sailors and the fishermen say? In the wildest storms, when the sea crashes upon the rocks, never, never does it touch San Francesco.
"I am quite sure he speaks the truth," Artois said, in French. "Why do you come here?" asked the Marchesino. "Signore, I come to fish." "For cigarettes?" "No, Signore, for sarde. Buona notte, Signore." He turned away from them with decision, and went back to his boat. "He is a Sicilian," said Artois. "I would swear to it." "Why? Hark at his accent." "He is a Sicilian!" "But why are you so sure?"
Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking at the Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something more which must inevitably come. The Marchesino took out his handkerchief, passed it several times quickly over his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and shut it up in his left hand. "I am young and you are old," he said. "And that is all the matter.
"Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked Artois, not without irony. "No to Ruffo." "That boy? But where was he last night?" "When we got back to the island, and the launch had gone off, Vere and I stood for a minute at the foot of the steps to listen to the roaring of the sea. Vere loves the sea." "I know that." As he spoke he thought of something that Hermione did not know.
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