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"Cher maître, I could not sleep last night, thinking of you," and she ended with "Your admirer and good friend, Coquillerosse," a nom de guerre she had adopted for her correspondence with the artist. She wrote in a disordered style, at unusual hours, just as her fancy and her abnormal nervous system prompted. At other times, there were only four brief, desperate lines. "Come at once, dear Mariano.
My companions were Mariano Gonzales, who had formerly accompanied me in Chile, and an "arriero," with his ten mules and a "madrina." The affection of these animals for their madrinas saves infinite trouble.
Then he fled precipitously, hidden under his cloak in sudden shame, with the firm determination not to return, to resist that demon of hungry curiosity which dwelt within him and could not see a woman's form in the street, without feeling a violent desire to disrobe it. These stories came to Cotoner's ears. Mariano! Mariano!
His father, Mariano Filipepi, a Florentine citizen, brought him up with care; but although the boy readily acquired whatever he had a mind to learn, yet he was always discontented, nor would he take any pleasure in reading, writing, or accounts; so that his father turned him over in despair to a friend of his called Botticello, who was a goldsmith.
During the voyage the unfortunate captives saw little of each other, nevertheless Mariano saw enough of the sisters, to create in his breast feelings of the tenderest pity especially for the younger sister, whom he thought rather pretty than otherwise!
"Foolish boy!" muttered Francisco, hastening after him. Mariano made short work of the soldier, hitting him such a blow on the turban that he fell as if he had been struck by a sledge-hammer. Unfortunately the blow also split up the piece of timber, and broke it short off at his hands.
A door opened beyond the archbishop's arch, that of the tower and the staircase leading to the dwellings in the upper cloister. A man crossed the street rattling a huge bunch of keys, and, followed by the usual morning assemblage, he proceeded to open the door of the lower cloister, narrow and pointed as an arrow-head. Gabriel recognised him, it was Mariano, the bell-ringer.
He might, indeed, have taken it with ease on level ground and in daylight; but, like his son Mariano on a somewhat similar occasion, he felt it difficult to screw up his courage to the point of springing across a black chasm, which he was aware descended some forty or fifty feet to the causeway of the street, and the opposite parapet, on which he was expected to alight like, a bird, appeared dim and ghostly in the uncertain light.
Mariano was a regular steam-engine for work. He made more images evenings, and better ones, than they had ever made before during the day. Finally Father Gonzales' wishes prevailed and Mariano was sent to the Academy at Barcelona.
Pausing a moment to think, and finding that the more he thought the less he seemed to be capable of thinking to any purpose, Mariano applied his knuckles to the door. For a youth of his character it was a timid knock, and produced no result.
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