AFTER DARK [149]
her chair.
"But where have you been for nearly a whole year past? In Italy?"
"No; at Paris. You know I can sing--not very well; but I have a voice, and most Frenchwomen (excuse the impertinence) have none. I met with a friend, and got introduced to a manager; and I have been singing at the theater--not the great parts, only the second. Your amiable countrywomen could not screech me down on the stage, but they intrigued against me successfully behind the scenes. In short, I quarreled with our principal lady, quarreled with the manager, quarreled with my friend; and here I am back at Pisa, with a little oney saved in my pocket, and no great notion what I am to do next."
"Back at Pisa? Why did you leave it?"
Brigida's eyes began to lose their indolent expression. She sat up suddenly in her chair, and set one of her hands heavily on a little table by her side.
"Why?" she repeated. "Because when I find the game going against me, I prefer giving it up at once to waiting to be beaten."
"Ah! you refer to that last year's project of yours for making your fortune among the sculptors. I should like to hear how it was you failed with the wealthy young amateur. Remember that I fell ill before you had any news to give me. Your absence when I returned from Lucca, and, almost immediately afterward, the marriage of your intended conquest to the sculptor's daughter, proved to me, of course, that you must have failed. But I never heard how. I know nothing at this moment but the bare fact that Maddalena Lomi won the prize."
"Tell me first, do she and her husband live together happily?"
"There are no stories of their disagreeing. She has dresses, horses, carriages; a negro page, the smallest lap-dog in Italy--in short, all the luxuries that a woman can want; and a child, by-the-by, into the bargain."
"A child?"
"Yes; a child, born little more than a week ago."
"Not a boy, I hope?"
"No; a girl."
"I am glad of that. Those rich people always want the first-born to be an heir. They will both be disappointed. I am glad of that."
"Mercy on us, Brigida, how fierce you look!"
"Do I? It's likely enough. I hate Fabio d'Ascoli and Maddalena Lomi--singly as man and woman, doubly as man and wife. Stop! I'll tell you what you want to know directly. Only answer me another question or two first. Have you heard anything about her health?"
"How should I hear? Dressmakers can't inquire at the doors of the nobility."
"True. Now one last question. That little simpleton, Nanina?"
"I have never seen or heard anything of her. She can't be at Pisa, or she would have called at our place for work."
"Ah! I need not have asked about her if I had thought a moment beforehand. Father Rocco would be sure to keep her out of Fabio's sight, for his niece's sake."
"What, he really loved that 'thread-paper of a girl' as you called her?"
"Better than fifty such wives as he has got now! I was in the studio the morning he was told of her departure from Pisa. A letter was privately given to him, telling him that the girl had left the place out of a feeling of honor, and had hidden herself beyond the possibility of discovery, to prevent him from compromising himself with all his friends by marrying her. Naturally enough, he would not believe that this was her own doing; and, naturally enough also, when Father Rocco was sent for, and was not to be found, he suspected the priest of being at the bottom of the business. I never saw a man in such a fury of despair and rage before. He swore that he would have all Italy searched for the girl, that he would be the death of the priest, and that he would never enter Luca Lomi's studio again--"
"And, as to this last particular, of course, being a man, he failed to keep his word?"
"Of course. At that first visit of mine to the studio I discovered two things. The first, as I said, that Fabio was really in love with the girl--the second, that Maddalena Lomi was really in love with him. You may suppose I looked at her attentively while the disturbance was going on, and while nobody's
"But where have you been for nearly a whole year past? In Italy?"
"No; at Paris. You know I can sing--not very well; but I have a voice, and most Frenchwomen (excuse the impertinence) have none. I met with a friend, and got introduced to a manager; and I have been singing at the theater--not the great parts, only the second. Your amiable countrywomen could not screech me down on the stage, but they intrigued against me successfully behind the scenes. In short, I quarreled with our principal lady, quarreled with the manager, quarreled with my friend; and here I am back at Pisa, with a little oney saved in my pocket, and no great notion what I am to do next."
"Back at Pisa? Why did you leave it?"
Brigida's eyes began to lose their indolent expression. She sat up suddenly in her chair, and set one of her hands heavily on a little table by her side.
"Why?" she repeated. "Because when I find the game going against me, I prefer giving it up at once to waiting to be beaten."
"Ah! you refer to that last year's project of yours for making your fortune among the sculptors. I should like to hear how it was you failed with the wealthy young amateur. Remember that I fell ill before you had any news to give me. Your absence when I returned from Lucca, and, almost immediately afterward, the marriage of your intended conquest to the sculptor's daughter, proved to me, of course, that you must have failed. But I never heard how. I know nothing at this moment but the bare fact that Maddalena Lomi won the prize."
"Tell me first, do she and her husband live together happily?"
"There are no stories of their disagreeing. She has dresses, horses, carriages; a negro page, the smallest lap-dog in Italy--in short, all the luxuries that a woman can want; and a child, by-the-by, into the bargain."
"A child?"
"Yes; a child, born little more than a week ago."
"Not a boy, I hope?"
"No; a girl."
"I am glad of that. Those rich people always want the first-born to be an heir. They will both be disappointed. I am glad of that."
"Mercy on us, Brigida, how fierce you look!"
"Do I? It's likely enough. I hate Fabio d'Ascoli and Maddalena Lomi--singly as man and woman, doubly as man and wife. Stop! I'll tell you what you want to know directly. Only answer me another question or two first. Have you heard anything about her health?"
"How should I hear? Dressmakers can't inquire at the doors of the nobility."
"True. Now one last question. That little simpleton, Nanina?"
"I have never seen or heard anything of her. She can't be at Pisa, or she would have called at our place for work."
"Ah! I need not have asked about her if I had thought a moment beforehand. Father Rocco would be sure to keep her out of Fabio's sight, for his niece's sake."
"What, he really loved that 'thread-paper of a girl' as you called her?"
"Better than fifty such wives as he has got now! I was in the studio the morning he was told of her departure from Pisa. A letter was privately given to him, telling him that the girl had left the place out of a feeling of honor, and had hidden herself beyond the possibility of discovery, to prevent him from compromising himself with all his friends by marrying her. Naturally enough, he would not believe that this was her own doing; and, naturally enough also, when Father Rocco was sent for, and was not to be found, he suspected the priest of being at the bottom of the business. I never saw a man in such a fury of despair and rage before. He swore that he would have all Italy searched for the girl, that he would be the death of the priest, and that he would never enter Luca Lomi's studio again--"
"And, as to this last particular, of course, being a man, he failed to keep his word?"
"Of course. At that first visit of mine to the studio I discovered two things. The first, as I said, that Fabio was really in love with the girl--the second, that Maddalena Lomi was really in love with him. You may suppose I looked at her attentively while the disturbance was going on, and while nobody's