who knows that he loves her, that he
wants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!"--he suddenly hissed
out the words. "The man with the white hairs who might have had many
children of his own, but who prefers to play papa--caro papa, Babbo
bello!--to the child of another on a certain little island. Ah, buon
Dio! The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; by whose side
the little Isidoro seems only a small boy from college, about whom
nobody need bother! How he is loved, and how he is trusted on the
island! Nobody must come there but he and those whom he wishes. He is
to order, to arrange all. The little Isidoro--he must not come there.
He must not know the ladies. He is nothing; but he is wicked. He loves
pleasure. He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidoro! Keep
him out! Keep him away! But the great writer--with the white
hairs--everything is allowed to him because he is Caro Papa. He may
teach the Signorina. He may be alone with her. He may take her out
at night in the boat."--His cheeks were stained with red and his
eyes glittered.--"And when the voice of that wicked little Isidoro is
heard--Quick! Quick! To the cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it is
dark, and he will never find us! Let us make him think we are at Nisida!
Hush! the boat is passing. He is deceived! He will search all night
till he is tired! Ah--ah--ah! That is good! And now back to the
island--quick!--before he finds out!"--He thrust out his arm towards
Artois.--"And that is my friend!" he exclaimed. "He who calls himself
the friend of the little wicked Isidoro. P--!"--He turned his head and
spat on to the balcony.--"Gran Dio! And this white-haired Babbo! He
steals into the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He puts a
girl of the town to live with the Signorina upon the island, to teach
her--"

"Stop!" said Artois.

"I will not stop!" said the Marchesino, furiously. "To teach the
Signorina all the--"

Artois lifted his hand.

"Do you want me to strike you on the mouth?" he said.

"Strike me!"

Artois looked at him with a steadiness that seemed to pierce.

"Then--take care, Panacci. You are losing your head."

"And you have lost yours!" cried the Marchesino. "You, with your white
hairs, you are mad. You are mad about the 'child.' You play papa, and
all the time you are mad, and you think nobody sees it. But every one
sees it, every one knows it. Every one knows that you are madly in love
with the Signorina