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Updated: July 8, 2025
There Marietta's vision of the future suddenly came to a climax, as she tried to imagine what would happen when she should boldly declare that neither her father, nor the Council of Ten, nor the Doge himself, nor even His Holiness Pope Paul, who was a Venetian too, could ever make her marry Jacopo Contarini.
Early one morning Fabrice, after surveying the work that was going on in the trenches, strolled away with a gun, intent upon lark-shooting. A wounded bird dropped on the road; and as Fabrice followed it he encountered a battered old carriage driving towards the frontier. In it were Giletti, Marietta and an old woman who passed as Marietta's mother.
He started briskly off towards Peter's own toolhouse, a low red-tiled pavilion, opposite the door of Marietta's kitchen. Peter was on the point of calling to him, of remonstrating. Then he thought better of it. He would wait a bit, and watch. He waited and watched; and this was what he saw.
A lively colour had come into the Duchessa's cheeks; her eyes seemed unusually bright. Her hair was in some disorder, drooping at the sides, and blown over her brow in fine free wavelets. It was dark in the kitchen, save for the firelight, which danced fantastically on the walls and ceiling, and struck a ruddy glow from Marietta's copper pots and pans.
He was too weak to question what was happening to him, but a soft light came into his eyes, and he unconsciously pressed Marietta's hand. She blushed at the pressure, without knowing why, and first the maiden instinct was to draw away her hand, but then she pitied him and let it stay. She thought, too, that her touch helped to keep him quiet, and indeed it did.
"This is a prank of some carnival-mad jester, child," said she. "There is not a word of truth in it. I wish there were!" "It is as true as that there are at least fifty workmen in the palace at this very moment," was Marietta's reply. Lucretia made no answer. She sprang from her ottoman, and, crossing the room, threw open the door leading into the next saloon. Marietta had spoken the sober truth.
"Well, you're too late," replied Smite. "You didn't speak quick enough." Marietta was greatly impressed with this atmosphere in which Angela and Eugene were living. She expected to see something artistic, but nothing so nice as this particular studio. Angela explained to her that Eugene did not own it, but that made small difference in Marietta's estimate of its significance. Eugene had it.
Mary Ann had scarcely stepped into her little room and put on her house dress, to prepare her supper, when she heard some one coming along with hurried footsteps. The door was quickly thrown open and in stepped her son Sami with a very distressed face. Under his arm he carried a bundle wrapped up in one of Marietta's aprons.
"I will inform you, madame," said the marquis, opening the door; "and, as to the Count Ranuzi, I read in your features that you hate him with a bitter hatred, and will not allow him to escape." Five days had passed since Marietta's interview with the marquis. They had wrought no change in her heart; not for a single instant had her thirst for revenge been allayed.
Besides this, he felt stronger and more able to move than since he had been injured, and he was sure that he could now walk with only a stick to help him, though he was always to be lame. He had looked up at Marietta's window before leaving the boat, but it was dark, for Pasquale had wished to be sure that no one should see Zorzi and it was long past the young girl's bedtime.
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