‘H’m!’ Pantaleone retired altogether
into his cravat. ’Hey, but that ferroflucto
Klueberio—what’s he about?’
he cried all of a sudden, looking up again.
‘He? Nothing.’
‘Che!’ Pantaleone shrugged his
shoulders contemptuously. ’I have, in any
case, to thank you,’ he articulated at last in
an unsteady voice ’that even in my present humble
condition you recognise that I am a gentleman—un
galant’uomo! In that way you have shown
yourself to be a real galant’uomo.
But I must consider your proposal.’
‘There’s no time to lose, dear Signor
Ci ... cippa ...’
‘Tola,’ the old man chimed in. ’I
ask only for one hour for reflection.... The
daughter of my benefactor is involved in this....
And, therefore, I ought, I am bound, to reflect!...
In an hour, in three-quarters of an hour, you shall
know my decision.’
‘Very well; I will wait.’
‘And now ... what answer am I to give to Signorina
Gemma?’
Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it, ’Set
your mind at rest, dear friend; in three hours’
time I will come to you, and everything shall be explained.
I thank you from my heart for your sympathy,’
and handed this sheet to Pantaleone.
He put it carefully into his side-pocket, and once
more repeating ’In an hour!’ made towards
the door; but turning sharply back, ran up to Sanin,
seized his hand, and pressing it to his shirt-front,
cried, with his eyes to the ceiling: ’Noble
youth! Great heart! (Nobil giovanotto!
Gran cuore!) permit a weak old man (a un vecchiotto!)
to press your valorous right hand (la vostra valorosa
destra!)’ Then he skipped back a pace or
two, threw up both hands, and went away.
Sanin looked after him ... took up the newspaper and
tried to read. But his eyes wandered in vain
over the lines: he understood nothing.
An hour later the waiter came in again to Sanin, and
handed him an old, soiled visiting-card, on which
were the following words: ’Pantaleone Cippatola
of Varese, court singer (cantante di camera)
to his Royal Highness the Duke of Modena’; and
behind the waiter in walked Pantaleone himself.
He had changed his clothes from top to toe. He
had on a black frock coat, reddish with long wear,
and a white pique waistcoat, upon which a pinch-beck
chain meandered playfully; a heavy cornelian seal
hung low down on to his narrow black trousers.
In his right hand he carried a black beaver hat, in
his left two stout chamois gloves; he had tied his
cravat in a taller and broader bow than ever, and
had stuck into his starched shirt-front a pin with
a stone, a so-called ‘cat’s eye.’
On his forefinger was displayed a ring, consisting
of two clasped hands with a burning heart between
them. A smell of garments long laid by, a smell
of camphor and of musk hung about the whole person
of the old man; the anxious solemnity of his deportment
must have struck the most casual spectator! Sanin
rose to meet him.
