I am not certain that a great ‘Impressario’ of Paris or London would have deemed the document which bound Gerald to his new master a very formal instrument. But there was a document. It was written on a fly-leaf of old Babbo’s Breviary, and set forth duly that for certain services to be afterward detailed, ‘un certo Gherardi’—so was he called—was to eat, and drink, and be clothed; always providing that there was meat, and drink, and wearables to give him; with certain benefices—small contingent remainders—to accrue when times were prosperous and patrons generous, and all this for the term of a twelvemonth. Donna Gaetana stoutly fought for five years, then three, and then two: but she was beaten in all her amendments, though she argued her case ably. She showed, with a force derived from great experience, that theirs was a profession wherein there was much to learn; that the initial stages developed very few of those gifts which won popular applause; that, consequently, the neophyte was anything but a profitable colleague; and it was only when his education was perfected that he could be expected to repay the cost of his early instruction. ‘At the end of a year,’ to borrow her own forcible language, ‘he ‘ll have smashed a dozen basins and broken twenty poles, and he ‘ll just be as stiff in the back as you see him today.’

‘He ‘ll have had enough of a weary life ere that,’ muttered the Babbo.

‘What have you to complain of, I ‘d like to know?’ asked she fiercely; ‘you that sit there all day like a prince on a throne, never so much as giving a blast of a horn or a beat on the drum; but pulling a few cords for your puppets, and making them patter about the stage while you tell over the self-same story I heard forty years ago. Ah, if it was Pierno! that was something indeed to hear! He came out with something new every evening—droll fellow that he was—and could make the people laugh till the Piazza rung again.’

‘Well, well,’ sighed Babbo, ‘his drollery has cost him something. He cut a jest upon the Cardinal Balfi, and they sent him to Molo di Gaeta, to work at the galleys. My pulcinello may be stupid, but will not make me finish my days in chains.’

Whether Marietta feared the effect these domestic discussions might produce upon Gerald, newly come as he was among them, or that she desired to talk with him more at her ease, she strolled away into the wood, giving one lingering glance as she left the place to bid him follow. The youth was not loth to accept the hint, and soon overtook her.

‘And so,’ said she, taking his hand between both her own, ‘you will stay?’

‘I have promised it,’ replied Gerald.

‘All for me, all for me, as the little song says.’

‘I never heard it. Will you sing it, Marietta?’ said he, placing his arm around her waist.

‘I ‘ll go and fetch my guitar, then,’ said she, and bounding away, was soon once more beside him, sweeping her fingers over the cords as she came.

‘It’s nothing of a song, either words or music; but I picked it up at Capri, and it reminds me of that sweet spot.’ So saying, and after a little prelude, she sang the canzonette, of which the following words are a rude version:

Simple as were the words, the wild beauty of the little air thrilled through Gerald’s heart, and twice did he make her repeat it.

‘Oh, if you like barcarolles,’ said she, ‘I’ll sing you hundreds of them, and teach you, besides, to sing them with me. We shall be so happy, Gherardi mio, living thus together.

‘And not regret Chico?’ said Gerald gravely.

‘Chico was very clever, but he was cruel. He would beat me when I would not learn quickly; and my life was very sad when he was with us. See,’ said she, drawing down her sleeve from her shoulder, ‘these stripes were of his giving.’

‘Briccone!’ muttered Gerald, ‘if I had him here.’

‘Ah, he was so treacherous! He ‘d have stabbed you at the altar-foot rather than let a vengeance escape him. He was a Corsican.’

‘And are they so treacherous always?’

‘Are they?’ cried she. ‘Per Dio, I believe they are.’

‘Well, let’s talk of him no more. I only mentioned his name because I feared you loved him, Marietta.’

‘And if I had!’ asked she, with a half-malicious drollery in her dark eyes.

‘Then I ‘d have hated him all the more—hated you, perhaps, too.’

‘Poverino!’ said she, with a sigh which ended in a laugh.

And now they walked along, side by side, while she told Gerald all about her life, her companions, their humours, their habits, and their ways. She liked Babbo. He was kind-hearted and affectionate; but Donna Gaetana was all that was cruel and unfeeling. Chico, indeed, had always resisted her tyranny, and she counselled Gerald to do the same. ‘As for me,’ added she sorrowfully, ‘I am but a girl, and must bear with her.’

‘But I’ll stand by you, Marietta,’ cried Gerald boldly. ‘We ‘ll see if the world won’t go better with each of us as we meet it thus,’ and he drew her arm around his waist, while he clasped hers with his own.

And what a happy hour was that as thus they rambled along under the leafy shade, no sound but the wild wood-pigeon’s cry to break the silence! for often they were silent with thoughts deeper than words could render. She, full of that future where Gerald was to be the companion of all her games; he, too, ranging in fancy over adventures wherein, as her protector and defender, he confronted perils unceasingly. Then he bethought him how strangely destiny should have thus brought them together, two forsaken, friendless creatures.

One falls in love at eighteen, at eight-and-twenty, and at eight-and-forty, with very different reasons for the process. Silky hair, and long eye-lashes, and pearly teeth get jostled as we go on through life, with thoughts of good connections and the three per cents., and a strange compromise is effected between inclination and self-interest. To know, however, the true ecstasy of the passion, to feel it in all its impulsive force, and in the full strength of its irresponsibility, be very young and very poor—young enough to doubt of nothing, not even yourself; poor enough to despise riches most heartily.

Gerald was young and poor. His mind, charged with deep stores of sentiment, was eagerly seeking where to invest its wealth. The tender pathos of St. Pierre, the more dangerous promptings of Rousseau, were in his heart, and he yearned for one to whom he could speak of the feelings that struggled within him. As for Marietta, to listen to him was ecstasy. The glowing language of poetry, its brilliant imagery, its melting softness, came upon her like refreshing rain upon some arid soil, scorched and sun-stricken: her spirit, half-crushed beneath daily hardships, rose at once to the magic touch of ennobling sentiment. Oh! what a new world was that which now opened before them: how beautiful, how bright, how full of tenderness, how rich in generous emotions!

‘Only think,’ said she, looking into his eyes, ‘but this very morning we had not known each other, and now we are bound together for ever and ever. Is it not so, Gherardi mio?’

‘So swear I!’ cried Gerald, as he pressed her to his heart; and then, in the full current of his warm eloquence, he poured forth a hundred schemes for their future career. They would seek out some sweet spot of earth, far away and secluded, like that wherein they rambled then, only more beautiful in verdure, and more picturesque, and build themselves a hut; there they would live together a life of bliss.

It was only by earnest persuasion she could turn him from at once putting the project into execution. ‘Why not now?’ cried he. ‘Here we are free, beyond the wood; you cross a little stream, and we are in Tuscany. I saw the frontier from the mountain-top this morning.’

‘And then,’ said the girl, ‘how are we to live?’ We shall neither have the Babbo nor Donna Gaetana; I cannot dance without her music, nor have you learned anything as yet to do. Mio Gherardi, we must wait and study hard; you must learn to be Paolo, and to declaim “Antonio,” too. I’ll teach you these; besides, the Babbo has a volume full of things would suit you. Our songs, too, we have not practised them together; and in the towns where we are going, the public, they say, are harder to please than in these mountain villages.’ And then she pictured forth a life of artistic triumph—success dear to her humble heart, the very memory of which brought tears of joy to her eyes. These she was longing to display before him, and to make him share in. Thus talking, they returned to the encampment, where, as the heat was past, the Babbo was now preparing to set out on his journey.