Fortunately for the Demoiselle Grifoni, the Frenchwoman had succeeded in producing three specimens6 of her art before her health broke down. They comprised the evening-dress of yellow brocaded silk, to which she had devoted7 herself on the morning when she first assumed her duties at Pisa; a black cloak and hood8 of an entirely9 new shape; and an irresistibly10 fascinating dressing-gown, said to have been first brought into fashion by the princesses of the blood-royal of France. These articles of costume, on being exhibited in the showroom, electrified11 the ladies of Pisa; and orders from all sides flowed in immediately on the Grifoni establishment. They were, of course, easily executed by the inferior work-women, from the specimen5 designs of the French dressmaker. So that the illness of Mademoiselle Virginie, though it might cause her mistress some temporary inconvenience, was, after all, productive of no absolute loss.
Two months at the baths of Lucca restored the new forewoman to health. She returned to Pisa, and resumed her place in the private work-room. Once re-established there, she discovered that an important change had taken place during her absence. Her friend and assistant, Brigida, had resigned her situation. All inquiries12 made of the Demoiselle Grifoni only elicited13 one answer: the missing work-woman had abruptly14 left her place at five minutes’ warning, and had departed without confiding15 to any one what she thought of doing, or whither she intended to turn her steps.
Months elapsed The new year came; but no explanatory letter arrived from Brigida. The spring season passed off, with all its accompaniments of dressmaking and dress-buying, but still there was no news of her. The first anniversary of Mademoiselle Virginie’s engagement with the Demoiselle Grifoni came round; and then at last a note arrived, stating that Brigida had returned to Pisa, and that if the French forewoman would send an answer, mentioning where her private lodgings16 were, she would visit her old friend that evening after business hours. The information was gladly enough given; and, punctually to the appointed time, Brigida arrived in Mademoiselle Virginie’s little sitting-room18.
Advancing with her usual indolent stateliness of gait, the Italian asked after her friend’s health as coolly, and sat down in the nearest chair as carelessly, as if they had not been separated for more than a few days. Mademoiselle Virginie laughed in her liveliest manner, and raised her mobile French eyebrows19 in sprightly20 astonishment21.
“Well, Brigida!” she exclaimed, “they certainly did you no injustice22 when they nicknamed you ‘Care-for-Nothing,’ in old Grifoni’s workroom. Where have you been? Why have you never written to me?”
“I had nothing particular to write about; and besides, I always intended to come back to Pisa and see you,” answered Brigida, leaning back luxuriously23 in 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 amiable24 countrywomen could not screech25 me down on the stage, but they intrigued26 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 money 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 sculptors27. 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 afterward28, 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 privately29 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 attentively30 while the disturbance31 was going on, and while nobody’s notice was directed on me. All women are vain, I know, but vanity never blinded my eyes. I saw directly that I had but one superiority over her—my figure. She was my height, but not well made. She had hair as dark and as glossy32 as mine; eyes as bright and as black as mine; and the rest of her face better than mine. My nose is coarse, my lips are too thick, and my upper lip overhangs my under too far. She had none of those personal faults; and, as for capacity, she managed the young fool in his passion as well as I could have managed him in her place.”
“How?”
“She stood silent, with downcast eyes and a distressed33 look, all the time he was raving34 up and down the studio. She must have hated the girl, and been rejoiced at her disappearance35; but she never showed it. ‘You would be an awkward rival’ (I thought to myself), ‘even to a handsomer woman than I am.’ However, I determined36 not to despair too soon, and made up my mind to follow my plan just as if the accident of the girl’s disappearance had never occurred. I smoothed down the master-sculptor easily enough—flattering him about his reputation, assuring him that the works of Luca Lomi had been the objects of my adoration37 since childhood, telling him that I had heard of his difficulty in finding a model to complete his Minerva from, and offering myself (if he thought me worthy) for the honor—laying great stress on that word—for the honor of sitting to him. I don’t know whether he was altogether deceived by what I told him; but he was sharp enough to see that I really could be of use, and he accepted my offer with a profusion38 of compliments. We parted, having arranged that I was to give him a first sitting in a week’s time.”
“Why put it off so long?”
“To allow our young gentleman time to cool down and return to the studio, to be sure. What was the use of my being there while he was away?”
“Yes, yes—I forgot. And how long was it before he came back?”
“I had allowed him more time than enough. When I had given my first sitting I saw him in the studio, and heard it was his second visit there since the day of the girl’s disappearance. Those very violent men are always changeable and irresolute39.”
“Had he made no attempt, then, to discover Nanina?”
“Oh, yes! He had searched for her himself, and had set others searching for her, but to no purpose. Four days of perpetual disappointment had been enough to bring him to his senses. Luca Lomi had written him a peace-making letter, asking what harm he or his daughter had done, even supposing Father Rocco was to blame. Maddalena Lomi had met him in the street, and had looked resignedly away from him, as if she expected him to pass her. In short, they had awakened40 his sense of justice and his good nature (you see, I can impartially41 give him his due), and they had got him back. He was silent and sentimental42 enough at first, and shockingly sulky and savage43 with the priest—”
“I wonder Father Rocco ventured within his reach.”
“Father Rocco is not a man to be daunted44 or defeated by anybody, I can tell you. The same day on which Fabio came back to the studio, he returned to it. Beyond boldly declaring that he thought Nanina had done quite right, and had acted like a good and virtuous45 girl, he would say nothing about her or her disappearance. It was quite useless to ask him questions—he denied that any one had a right to put them. Threatening, entreating46, flattering—all modes of appeal were thrown away on him. Ah, my dear! depend upon it, the cleverest and politest man in Pisa, the most dangerous to an enemy and the most delightful47 to a friend, is Father Rocco. The rest of them, when I began to play my cards a little too openly, behaved with brutal48 rudeness to me. Father Rocco, from first to last, treated me like a lady. Sincere or not, I don’t care—he treated me like a lady when the others treated me like—”
“There! there! don’t get hot about it now. Tell me instead how you made your first approaches to the young gentleman whom you talk of so contemptuously as Fabio.”
“As it turned out, in the worst possible way. First, of course, I made sure of interesting him in me by telling him that I had known Nanina. So far it was all well enough. My next object was to persuade him that she could never have gone away if she had truly loved him alone; and that he must have had some fortunate rival in her own rank of life, to whom she had sacrificed him, after gratifying her vanity for a time by bringing a young nobleman to her feet. I had, as you will easily imagine, difficulty enough in making him take this view of Nanina’s flight. His pride and his love for the girl were both concerned in refusing to admit the truth of my suggestion. At last I succeeded. I brought him to that state of ruffled49 vanity and fretful self-assertion in which it is easiest to work on a man’s feelings—in which a man’s own wounded pride makes the best pitfall50 to catch him in. I brought him, I say, to that state, and then she stepped in and profited by what I had done. Is it wonderful now that I rejoice in her disappointments—that I should be glad to hear any ill thing of her that any one could tell me?”
“But how did she first get the advantage of you?”
“If I had found out, she would never have succeeded where I failed. All I know is, that she had more opportunities of seeing him than I, and that she used them cunningly enough even to deceive me. While I thought I was gaining ground with Fabio, I was actually losing it. My first suspicions were excited by a change in Luca Lomi’s conduct toward me. He grew cold, neglectful—at last absolutely rude. I was resolved not to see this; but accident soon obliged me to open my eyes. One morning I heard Fabio and Maddalena talking of me when they imagined I had left the studio. I can’t repeat their words, especially here. The blood flies into my head, and the cold catches me at the heart, when I only think of them. It will be enough if I tell you that he laughed at me, and that she—”
“Hush! not so loud. There are other people lodging17 in the house. Never mind about telling me what you heard; it only irritates you to no purpose. I can guess that they had discovered—”
“Through her—remember, all through her!”
“Yes, yes, I understand. They had discovered a great deal more than you ever intended them to know, and all through her.”
“But for the priest, Virginie, I should have been openly insulted and driven from their doors. He had insisted on their behaving with decent civility toward me. They said that he was afraid of me, and laughed at the notion of his trying to make them afraid too. That was the last thing I heard. The fury I was in, and the necessity of keeping it down, almost suffocated51 me. I turned round to leave the place forever, when, who should I see, standing52 close behind me, but Father Rocco. He must have discovered in my face that I knew all, but he took no notice of it. He only asked, in his usual quiet, polite way, if I was looking for anything I had lost, and if he could help me. I managed to thank him, and to get to the door. He opened it for me respectfully, and bowed—he treated me like a lady to the last! It was evening when I left the studio in that way. The next morning I threw up my situation, and turned my back on Pisa. Now you know everything.”
“Did you hear of the marriage? or did you only assume from what you knew that it would take place?”
“I heard of it about six months ago. A man came to sing in the chorus at our theater who had been employed some time before at the grand concert given on the occasion of the marriage. But let us drop the subject now. I am in a fever already with talking of it. You are in a bad situation here, my dear; I declare your room is almost stifling53.”
“Shall I open the other window?”
“No; let us go out and get a breath of air by the river-side. Come! take your hood and fan—it is getting dark—nobody will see us, and we can come back here, if you like, in half an hour.”
Mademoiselle Virginie acceded54 to her friend’s wish rather reluctantly. They walked toward the river. The sun was down, and the sudden night of Italy was gathering55 fast. Although Brigida did not say another word on the subject of Fabio or his wife, she led the way to the bank of the Arno, on which the young nobleman’s palace stood.
Just as they got near the great door of entrance, a sedan-chair, approaching in the opposite direction, was set down before it; and a footman, after a moment’s conference with a lady inside the chair, advanced to the porter’s lodge56 in the courtyard. Leaving her friend to go on, Brigida slipped in after the servant by the open wicket, and concealed57 herself in the shadow cast by the great closed gates.
“The Marchesa Melani, to inquire how the Countess d’Ascoli and the infant are this evening,” said the footman.
“My mistress has not changed at all for the better since the morning,” answered the porter. “The child is doing quite well.”
The footman went back to the sedan-chair; then returned to the porter’s lodge.
“The marchesa desires me to ask if fresh medical advice has been sent for,” he said.
“Another doctor has arrived from Florence to-day,” replied the porter.
Mademoiselle Virginie, missing her friend suddenly, turned back toward the palace to look after her, and was rather surprised to see Brigida slip out of the wicket-gate. There were two oil lamps burning on pillars outside the doorway58, and their light glancing on the Italian’s face, as she passed under them, showed that she was smiling.
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1
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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11
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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15
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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16
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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23
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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24
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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27
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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31
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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32
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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35
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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39
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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40
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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41
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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42
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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43
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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44
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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46
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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49
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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51
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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52
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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53
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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54
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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55
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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56
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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57
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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58
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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