my
night-cap. 'Hush,' said she, in the whole length of that softest of
all articulations. 'There is Ser Francesco in the next room: he sleeps
long into the morning, but he is so clever a clerk, he may understand
you just the same. I doubt whether he thinks Ser Giovanni in the wrong
for making so many people quite happy; and if he should, it would
grieve me very much to think he blamed Ser Giovanni.'

'Who is Ser Francesco?' he asked, in a low voice.

'Ser Canonico,' she answered.

'Of what Duomo?' continued he.

'Who knows?' was the reply; 'but he is Padrone's heart's friend, for
certain.'

'Cospetto di Bacco! It can then be no other than Petrarca. He makes
rhymes and love like the devil. Don't listen to him, or you are
undone. Does he love you too, as well as Padrone?' he asked, still
lowering his voice.

'I cannot tell that matter,' she answered, somewhat impatiently; 'but
I love him.'

'To my face!' cried he, smartly.

'To the Santissima!' replied she, instantaneously; 'for have not I
told your Reverence he is Padrone's true heart's friend! And are not
you my confessor, when you come on purpose?'

'True, true!' answered he; 'but there are occasions when we are
shocked by the confession, and wish it made less daringly.'

'I was bold; but who can help loving him who loves my good Padrone?'
said she, much more submissively.

_Boccaccio._ Brave girl, for that!

Dog of a Frate! They are all of a kidney; all of a kennel. I would
dilute their meal well and keep them low. They should not waddle and
wallop in every hollow lane, nor loll out their watery tongues at
every wash-pool in the parish. We shall hear, I trust, no more about
Fra Biagio in the house while you are with us. Ah! were it then for
life.

_Petrarca._ The man's prudence may be reasonably doubted, but it were
uncharitable to question his sincerity. Could a neighbour, a religious
one in particular, be indifferent to the welfare of Boccaccio, or any
belonging to him?

_Boccaccio._ I do not complain of his indifference. Indifferent! no,
not he. He might as well be, though. My villetta here is my castle: it
was my father's; it was his father's. Cowls did not hang to dry upon
the same cord with caps in their podere; they shall not in mine. The
girl is an honest girl, Francesco, though I say it. Neither she nor
any other shall be befooled and bamboozled under my roof. Methinks
Holy Church might contrive some improvement upon confession.

_Petra