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Updated: June 18, 2025
One side of the square was flanked by the imposing façade of a church with the village saint on a pedestal in front; the other side, by a cheerfully inviting osteria with tables and chairs set into the street and a glimpse inside of a blazing hearth and copper kettles. Mr. Wilder headed in a straight line for the nearest chair and dropped into it with an expression of permanence.
Under a burning blue sky, among the pine-trees and junipers, the cypresses and olives of that Odyssean coast, we came one afternoon on a pink house bearing the legend: "Osteria di Tranquillita,"; and, partly because of the name, and partly because we did not expect to find a house at all in those goat-haunted groves above the waves, we tarried for contemplation.
And to his companions he added: "Pray excuse me, but I want to see if I can get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them." A few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the road stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name of "Antica Osteria Romana."
We went in silence by ways that were well known to him but in which I should assuredly have lost myself, and so we came at last to a fair tavern the Osteria del Sole near the Tower of Nona. His horse was stalled here, and a servant led the way above-stairs to the room that he had hired.
But as we stealthy crept by the "Osteria di Tranquillita," our friend in the bowler hat came out with a gun over his shoulder and waved his hand toward the Inn. "You come again in two week I change all that! And now," he added, "I go to shoot little bird or two," and he disappeared into the golden haze under the olive-trees.
Near the station at Salona is a little osteria, in and about which a number of antique fragments are disposed. It was stopping to have some wine here that caused us to miss our train.
And he felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the basket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple of miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the darkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen. "We stopped too long at that osteria," he suddenly exclaimed aloud, turning towards Pierre.
All began afresh in their minds, Destiny on the march, Santobono encountered with his little basket, the drive across the melancholy Campagna, the conversation about poison while the little basket was gently rocked on the priest's knees; then, in particular, the sleepy osteria, and the little black hen, so suddenly killed, lying on the ground with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.
He did not altogether trust the weather, he then said to the hostess of the osteria; to be sure, it was clear enough, but he did not quite like that tint of sea and sky. Just so it had looked, he said, before the last awful storm, when the English family had been so nearly lost; surely she must remember it? No, indeed, she said, she didn't.
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