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Updated: June 19, 2025
Even while she spoke she felt as if she were telling a lie which was obvious to them all. And she could not help glancing hastily round. She met the large round eyes of the Marchesino, eyes without subtlety though often expressive. "No, Signora," he said, smiling at her, rather obviously to captivate her by the sudden vision of his superb teeth "La Bruna is safe to-night." "La Bruna?"
"Gaspare! That servant who came to the Guiseppone? Oh, no doubt he has rowed the ladies over and will return to the boat?" "No, I think not. I think the Signora will bring him to the Carmine." "Why?" said the Marchesino, sharply. "Why not? He is a strong fellow, and might be useful in a crowd." "Are we not strong? Are we not useful?" "My dear Doro, what's the matter?" "Niente niente!"
She was not at all what the Neapolitan calls "a lump of snow to cool the wine." In her innocence there was fire. That was what confused the Marchesino. He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone out, and his round eyes became almost pathetic for a moment.
Ruffo stared at it for a moment with a critical inquiring gaze. The boat drew up near the land and stopped. There was a faint murmur of voices, then silence again. The Marchesino had told the two sailors that they could have an hour or two of sleep before beginning to fish. The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to sleep at once.
The youth to Artois the Marchesino seemed almost a boy, indeed, often quite a boy was admirable in his precocity. He embodied Naples, its gay furberia, and yet that was hardly the word perhaps rather one should say its sunny naughtiness, its reckless devotion to life purged of thought. And Vere what did she embody? Not Sicily, though she was in some ways so Sicilian.
"Signora, I am delighted to go out." He got his straw hat, and they went into the tiny garden and sat down on basket-work chairs under a trellis, set in the shadow of some fig-trees. Giulia brought them coffee, and the Marchesino lighted a cigarette. He said to himself that he had never been in love before. Vere wore a white dress.
But now she thought of the Marchesino, of Peppina, of her conversation with Monsieur Emile in the Grotto of Virgilio, and realized the blooming of her girlhood, was aware that she was changing. And she felt half frightened, then eager, ardently eager. An impulse filled her, the impulse towards a fulness of life that, till now, she had not known.
Her entry roused him from his reverie, and he took out his watch. It was already past eight. The Marchesino would soon be coming. And then the dinner at Frisio's! He got up and moved about the room, picking up a book here and there, glancing at some pages, then putting it down. He felt restless and uneasy. "I am tired from the journey," he thought. "Or I wonder what the weather is this evening.
The similarity of the costume adopted by the Marchesino and Bianca was entirely accidental. And this, trifling as the circumstance may seem, had contributed very materially to arouse the Marchese's wrath and jealous agony. Bianca, perhaps, under the circumstances, ought not to have danced as frequently as she did with the Marchesino.
This afternoon, I confess to you, I had little doubt but that the Marchesino had, in a fatal moment of anger and desperation, committed the crime. But, upon my word now, I know not what to think. Here we have three parties, each of whom we know to have been acted on by one of three strong passions. We have jealousy, and wounded vanity. Which of the three has done the deed?"
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