The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

began to fret. “These nobles think nothing of a poor fellow's time.” However, just as he was making up his mind to slip out, and go about his business, the door opened, and a superb beauty entered the room, followed by two maids. It was the young princess of the house of Cesarini. She came in talking rather loudly and haughtily to her dependents, but at sight of Gerard lowered her voice to a very feminine tone, and said, “Are you the writer, messer?”

“I am, Signora.

“'Tis well.”

She then seated herself; Gerard and her maids remained standing.

“What is your name, good youth?”

“Gerard, signora.”

“Gerard? body of Bacchus! is that the name of a human creature?”

“It is a Dutch name, signora. I was born at Tergou, in Holland.”

“A harsh name, girls, for so well-favoured a youth; what say you?”

The maids assented warmly.

“What did I send for him for?” inquired the lady, with lofty languor. “Ah, I remember. Be seated, Ser Gerardo, and write me a letter to Ercole Orsini, my lover; at least he says so.”

Gerard seated himself, took out paper and ink, and looked up to the princess for instructions.

She, seated on a much higher chair, almost a throne, looked down at him with eyes equally inquiring.

“Well, Gerardo.”

“I am ready, your excellence.”

“Write, then.”

“I but await the words.”

“And who, think you, is to provide them?”

“Who but your grace, whose letter it is to be?”

“Gramercy! what, you writers, find you not the words? What avails your art without the words? I doubt you are an impostor, Gerardo.”

“Nay, Signora, I am none. I might make shift to put your highness's speech into grammar, as well as writing. But I cannot interpret your silence. Therefore speak what is in your heart, and I will empaper it before your eyes.”

“But there is nothing in my heart. And sometimes I think I have got no heart.”

“What is in your mind, then?”

“But there is nothing in my mind; nor my head neither.”

“Then why write at all?”

“Why, indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence seize him! why writeth he not first? then I could say nay to this, and ay to that, withouten headache. Also is it a lady's part to say the first word?”

“No, signora: the last.”

“It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha! ha! Shalt have a gold piece for thy wit. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the article on the nail a la moyen age. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty, if the wit of man might achieve it. “Signorina,” said he, “these things are only hard because folk attempt too much, are artificial and labour phrases. Do but figure to yourself the signor you love—”

“I love him not.”

“Well, then, the signor you love not-seated at this table, and dict to me just what you would say to him.”

“Well, if he sat there, I should say, 'Go away.'”

Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down with a groan.

“And when he was gone,” said Floretta, “your highness would say, 'Come back.'”

“Like enough, wench. Now silence, all, and let me think. He pestered me to write, and I promised; so mine honour is engaged. What lie shall I tell the Gerardo to tell the fool?” and she turned her head away from them and fell into deep thought, with her noble chin resting on her white hand, half clenched.

She was so lovely and statuesque, and looked so inspired with thoughts celestial, as she sat thus, impregnating herself with mendacity, that Gerard forgot all, except art, and proceeded eagerly to transfer that exquisite profile to paper.

He had very nearly finished when the fair statue turned brusquely round and looked at him.

“Nay, Signora,” said he, a little peevishly; “for Heaven's sake change not your posture—'twas perfect. See, you are nearly finished.”

All eyes were instantly on the work, and all tongues active.

“How like! and done in a minute: nay, methinks her highness's chin is not quite so.”

“Oh, a touch will make that right.”

“What a pity 'tis not coloured. I'm all for colours. Hang black and white! And her highness hath such a lovely skin. Take away her skin, and half her beauty is lost.”

“Peace. Can you colour, Ser Gerardo?”

“Ay, signorina. I am a poor hand at oils; there shines my friend Pietro; but in this small way I can tint you to the life, if you have time to waste on such vanity.”

“Call you this vanity? And for time, it hangs on me like lead. Send for your colours now—quick, this moment—for love of all the saints.”

“Nay, signorina, I must prepare them. I could come at the same time.”

“So be it. And you, Floretta, see that he be admitted at all hours. Alack! Leave my head! leave my head!”

“Forgive me, Signora; I thought to prepare it at home to receive the colours. But I will leave it. And now let us despatch the letter.”

“What letter?”

“To the Signor Orsini.”

“And shall I waste my time on such vanity as writing letters—and to that empty creature, to whom I am as indifferent as the moon? Nay, not indifferent, for I have just discovered my real sentiments. I hate him and despise him. Girls, I here forbid you once for all to mention that signor's name to me again; else I'll whip you till the blood comes. You know how I can lay on when I'm roused.”

“We do. We do.”

“Then provoke me not to it;” and her eye flashed daggers, and she turned to Gerard all instantaneous honey. “Addio, il Gerardo.” And Gerard bowed himself out of this velvet tiger's den.

He came next day and coloured her; and next he was set to make a portrait