THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

I laughed at her. "My child," said I, "on your showing a man cannot be a gentleman in his bed—or in his bath." But she held to
her opinion.
"I think you understand me very well. You choose to go a pilgrimage, to encounter dangers and humiliations, and yet the
moment a fine one is proposed to you, you jump back after your gentleman's estate. You tell me that you have peddled
crucifixes: what more does Palamone expect of you? Be what you choose, Don Francis; kiss me or kiss your Aurelia; go afoot
or in a coach; beg or give, sink or swim. You have two hands, you will say. It is true; but you have only one person. If, with a
fistful of gold in your right hand, you go about begging with your left, you will be contemptible as well as ridiculous."
"I agree with that," I said, "but—"
"Here again," said she, breaking in upon me, "you have a choice; and it is obvious. I am not able to speak for Donna Aurelia, or
so you will tell me; but I will give a great golden heart to the Girdle of Prato that while she may love a ridiculous Don Francis,
she will turn her back on the other."
"Love!" I said, echoing her. "Love, my good girl! Of what are you speaking? Donna Aurelia love me? You must be mad."
"It is certain that I must be," she replied, "unless it is your honour who is mad. Pray let me understand what it is that you want of
the lady when you find her."
"Her pardon," I said, and made her furious. She glared, bit her lip, stamped. With arms tight folded to restrain her heaving chest,
she stopped short and nodded her words into me one by one, as if she were directing artillery at a siege. "Well, very well, Don
Francis," she said; "then I tell you plainly that you will find misery and her together, if you propose to pray at her feet instead of
taking her in your arms—she of Siena! She of Siena, my word!—you will be miserable, and make her miserable."
I told her to be quiet, but she would not; she grew wild, staring about and straining out her arms. "I will be no party to this folly
—I will not—I will not," she said half to herself, but Palamone was listening with a comical, wry face, rubbing his beard.
She took no notice. "I know better than you what a girl needs, and what her rights are. One woman to humour your whims is
enough, I should hope —Look at me, look at me, Don Francis!" I had never seen her in this state before—a beautiful starving
creature, like some wild thing baulked of her desire. Her eyes were gaunt, she held out her hands to me; I was much concerned
—it was really Palamone who got her to be quiet.
He came and touched her on the shoulder. "Have patience, my daughter," he said, and added some quick words under his
breath, whose sense was lost to me. Meantime a little company of passers-by had collected about us, and watched for the
event. "We will not discuss our affairs before these citizens," said the frate, "more especially as the lady, whose name you toss
to and fro, is not here to applaud or condemn. No doubt but you will find her in Prato, if, as you say, she is of the Sienese
nation. Why, to the translation of the blessed remains are to come Donna Violante, wife of the Grand Prince, and Donna
Camilla Pallavicini, his mistress. Next to a saint, a Grand Duke's mistress would draw every woman in Siena—and we are to
have both. The thing is not worth discussion. She will be there. Hey, then, children, AVANTI!"
We went on without any more words; Virginia, all her spirit gone out of her, presented the most woebegone appearance. It
would have been evident to me that she was deeply ashamed of herself had I not been too incensed to think anything about her.
We entered the town of Prato about five o'clock in the evening, and found it crammed to the walls with sightseers and those
who expected to offer them sights. The Piazza was like the camp about a fair, the inns were like anthills, the very churches were
full. On the morrow was to be the great procession of religious to enact the translation of the remains. No lodgings were to be
had better than a stall in the stable of the Sparrow-hawk. There it was that we established our camp; and that done, I left my
companions and wandered alone about the town, hardly hoping, and not able, to find my beloved, remote and much injured
Aurelia.
Late at night I returned and threw myself upon the straw which was to be my bed. I was tired, and fell asleep at once, but not
comfortably. Restlessness possessed me, I turned and tossed about, was distressed by dreams of incredible and fruitless
labours and of mental anguish, whose cause I could not define. Presently after I was awakened by a sense of something
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