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Updated: May 16, 2025
When night came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar and went to the Via Ripetta, where, with the express view of causing old Capuzzi annoyance, they complimented lovely Marianna with the finest serenade that ever was heard. For Salvator played and sang in masterly style, whilst Antonio, as far as the capabilities of his fine tenor would allow him, almost rivalled Odoardo Ceccarelli.
No longer in detached flakes, but as though an openwork white cloth were continuously unrolled before one's eyes. Signor Odoardo begins to think that it will be impossible for him to call on Signora Evelina. True, it is only a step, but he would sink into the snow up to his knees. After all, it is only twelve o'clock. It may stop snowing later.
After several minutes of assiduous toil she raises her head and asks: "What shall I say to grandmamma about her invitation to go and spend a few weeks with her?" "Tell her that you can't go now, but that she may expect you in the spring." "With you, papa?" "With me, yes," Signor Odoardo answers mechanically.
Nor is this the sum total of her charms: look at the soft, graceful curves of her agile, well-proportioned figure; look at her little hands and feet! After all, one hardly wonder that Signor Odoardo runs the risk of catching his death of cold, instead of closing the window and warming himself at the stove which roars so cheerfully within.
Well, then, why don't they marry that being the customary denouement in such cases? Why don't they marry? Well Signor Odoardo is still undecided. If there had been any hope of a love-affair I fear that his indecision would have vanished long ago. Errare humanum est. But Signora Evelina is a woman of serious views; she is in search of a husband, not of a flirtation.
She too is taking the air, leaning against the window-sill in her dressing-gown, her fair curls falling upon her forehead and tossed back every now and then by a pretty movement of her head. The street is so narrow that it is easy to talk across from one side to the other, but in such weather as this the only two windows that stand open are those of Signora Evelina and Signor Odoardo.
"Daddy, see if I know my La Fontaine fable: Le corbeau et le renard." "Very well, let's hear it," Signor Odoardo assents, taking the open book from the little girl's hands. Doretta begins: "Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche, Tenait en son bec un fromage; Maitre...maitre...maitre..." "Go on." "Maitre..." "Maitre renard."
Signor Odoardo, giving free rein to his thoughts, evokes the vision of his married life, sees the baby's cradle, recalls her first cries and smiles, feels again his dying wife's last kiss, and hears the last word upon her lips, DORETTA. No, no, it is impossible that he should ever do anything to make his Doretta unhappy!
Ten years earlier, on a pleasanter day, but also in winter, Signor Odoardo had started on his wedding-journey. Opposite him had sat a young girl, who looked as much like Doretta as a woman can look like a child; a pretty, sedate young girl, oh, so sweetly, tenderly in love with Signor Odoardo. And as the train started he had asked her the same question: "Are you happy, Maria?"
Thus Signor Odoardo; but in his heart of hearts he too is convinced that his little daughter has no fondness for Signora Evelina. Meanwhile, the cold is growing more intense, and every now and then a flake of snow spins around upon the wind. Short of wishing to be frozen stiff, there is nothing for it but to shut the window. "It snows," says Signora Evelina, glancing upward.
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