Pish! tush! Laura checked her. They flog women, they do not shoot them. They shoot men.
That is our better fortune, said Ammiani.
But, Sandra, my sister, Laura persisted now, in melodious coaxing tones. Can you not help us to guess? I am troubled: I am stung. It is for your sake I feel it so. Cant you imagine who did it, for instance?
No, signora, I cannot, Vittoria replied.
You cant guess?
I cannot help you.
You will not! said the irritable woman. Have you noticed no one passing near you?
A woman brushed by me as I entered this street. I remember no one else. And my Beppo seized a man who was spying on me, as he said. That is all I can remember.
Vittoria turned her face to Ammiani.
Barto Rizzo has lived in England, he remarked, half to himself. Did you come across a man called Barto Rizzo there, signorina? I suspect him to be the author of this.
At the name of Barto Rizzo, Lauras eyes widened, awakening a memory in Ammiani; and her face had a spectral wanness.
I must go to my chamber, she said. Talk of it together. I will be with you soon.
She left them.
Ammiani bent over to Vittorias ear. It was this man who sent the warning to Giacomo, the signoras husband, which he despised, and which would have saved him.
It is the only good thing I know of Barto Rizzo. Pardon her.
I do, said the girl, now weeping.
She has evidently a rooted superstitious faith in these revolutionary sign-marks. They are contagious to her. She loves you, and believes in you, and will kneel to you for forgiveness by-and-by. Her misery is a disease. She thinks now, If my husband had given heed to the warning!
Yes, I see how her heart works, said Vittoria. You knew her husband, Signor Carlo?
I knew him. I served under him. He was the brother of my love. I shall have no other.
Vittoria placed her hand for Ammiani to take it. He joined his own to the fevered touch. The heart of the young man swelled most ungovernably, but the perils of the morrow were imaged by him, circling her as with a tragic flame, and he had no word for his passion.
The door opened, when a noble little boy bounded into the room; followed by a little girl in pink and white, like a streamer in the steps of her brother. With shouts, and with arms thrown forward, they flung themselves upon Vittoria, the boy claiming all her lap, and the girl struggling for a share of the kingdom. Vittoria kissed them, crying, No, no, no, Messer Jack, this is a republic, and not an empire, and you are to have no rights of first come; and Amalia sits on one knee, and you on one knee, and you sit face to face, and take hands, and swear to be satisfied.
Then I desire not to be called an English Christian name, and you will call me Giacomo, said the boy.
Vittoria sang, in mountain-notes, Giacomo!GiacomoGiac-giac-giac.. como!
The children listened, glistening up at her, and in conjunction jumped and shouted for more.
More? said Vittoria; but is the Signor Carlo no friend of ours? and does he wear a magic ring that makes him invisible?
Let the German girl go to him, said Giacomo, and strained his throat to reach at kisses.
I am not a German girl, little Amalia protested, refusing to go to Carlo Ammiani under that stigma, though a delightful haven of open arms and knees, and filliping fingers, invited her.
She is not a German girl, O Signor Giacomo, said Vittoria, in the theatrical manner.
She has a German name.
Its not a German name! the little girl shrieked.
Giacomo set Amalia to a miauling tune.
So, you hate the Duchess of Graatli! said Vittoria. Very well. I shall remember.
The boy declared that he did not hate his mothers friend and sisters godmother: he rather liked her, he really liked her, he loved her; but he loathed the name Amalia, and could not understand why the duchess would be a German. He concluded by miauling Amalia in the triumph of contempt.
Cat, begone! said Vittoria, promptly setting him down on his feet, and little Amalia at the same time perceiving that practical sympathy only required a ring at the bell for it to come out, straightway pulled the wires within herself, and emitted a doleful wail that gave her sole possession of Vittorias bosom, where she was allowed to bring her tears to an end very comfortingly. Giacomo meanwhile, his body bent in an arch, plucked at Carlo Ammianis wrists with savagely playful tugs, and took a stout boys lesson in the art of despising what he coveted. He had only to ask for pardon. Finding it necessary, he came shyly up to Vittoria, who put Amalia in his way, kissing whom, he was himself tenderly kissed.
But girls should not cry! Vittoria reproved the little woman.
Why do you cry? asked Amalia simply.
See! she has been crying. Giacomo appropriated the discovery, perforce of loudness, after the fashion of his sex.
Why does our Vittoria cry? both the children clamoured.
Because your mother is such a cruel sister to her, said Laura, passing up to them from the doorway. She drew Vittorias head against her breast, looked into her eyes, and sat down among them. Vittoria sang one low-toned soft song, like the voice of evening, before they were dismissed to their beds. She could not obey Giacomos demand for a martial air, and had to plead that she was tired.
When the children had gone, it was as if a truce had ended. The signora and Ammiani fell to a brisk counterchange of questions relating to the mysterious suspicion which had fallen upon Vittoria. Despite Lauras love for her, she betrayed her invincible feeling that there must be some grounds for special or temporary distrust.
The lives that hang on it knock at me here, she said, touching under her throat with fingers set like falling arrows.
But Ammiani, who moved in the centre of conspiracies, met at their councils, and knew their heads, and frequently combated their schemes, was not possessed by the same profound idea of their potential command of hidden facts and sovereign wisdom. He said, We trust too much to one man. We are compelled to trust him, but we trust too much to him. I mean this man, this devil, Barto Rizzo. Signora, signora, he must be spoken of. He has dislocated the plot. He is the fanatic of the revolution, and we are trusting him as if he had full sway of reason. What is the consequence? The Chief is absent he is now, as I believe, in Genoa. All the plan for the rising is accurate; the instruments are ready, and we are paralyzed. I have been to three houses to-night, and where, two hours previously, there was union and concert, all are irresolute and divided. I have hurried off a messenger to the Chief. Until we hear from him, nothing can be done. I left Ugo Corte storming against us Milanese, threatening, as usual, to work without us, and have a Bergamasc and Brescian Republic of his own. Count Medole is for a weeks postponement. Agostino smiles and chuckles, and talks his poetisms.
Until you hear from the Chief, nothing is to be done? Laura said passionately. Are we to remain in suspense? Impossible! I cannot bear it. We have plenty of arms in the city. Oh, that we had cannon! I worship cannon! They are the Gods of battle! But if we surprise the citadel;one true shock of alarm makes a mob of an army. I have heard my husband say so. Let there be no delay. That is my word.
But, signora, do you see that all concert about the signal is lost?
My friend, I see something; Laura nodded a significant half-meaning at him. And perhaps it will be as well. Go at once. See that another signal is decided upon. Oh! because we are readyready. Inaction now is uttermost anguishkills the heart. What number of the white butchers have we in the city to-night?