was not
mistaken--though he perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse,
when he said, softly, of her: "She is Austria itself." Like the old
Austria of those days, the old Marchesa did not wish for any bold
spirits in her empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate others in
its neighbourhood. Such an indocile Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was
already too much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared to have a mind
and a will of her own, would probably prove a troublesome subject of the
house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hungary.

Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven face, and ill-fitting, grey
livery reflected the Marchesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had
been tempered by habits of economy.

"And where is this Signor Giacomo, Controllore?" she said, without
rising.

"I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti replied. "I saw him this
morning, and said to him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor
Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had swallowed a snake. He twisted and
turned and at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't know! Perhaps. I
can't say!--Uff! uff. Well really now, my good Controllore, indeed I
don't know!--Uff, uff!'--and I could get nothing more out of him."

The Marchesa summoned the footman to her side, and gave him an order in
a low tone. He bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the risotto, the
curate of Puria was rocking his body to and fro, and stroking his knees.
But the Marchesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he also became
petrified. The others gazed mutely at one another.

Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the footman, and was surprised at
this immobility and these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows,
questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then Puria, then the
prefect, until a lightning glance from Pasotti petrified her as well.
"Perhaps the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an expression of
indifference. "If they would only send us home! What luck that would
be!" But in a minute or two the servant returned, and bowed.

"Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising.

In the dining-room the company found a new personage; a little, crooked,
old man, with kind eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards his chin.

"Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly and timidly, "I have
already dined."

"Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa replied, who, like all those
who are determined to make their world bend to their own comfort and
ta