"Bring the fellow, Americo," said Prince Della Robbia.
The butler flushed furiously with joy. "Rightho, my good Highnesses," he
exclaimed; and the three who understood why he was funny stifled
laughter till he was out of earshot. "His English is a constant delight
to us," said Marie, instantly picking up again her sleigh-bell gayety of
manner, like a dropped, forgotten garment. "It's as wonderful as my
English maid's French, which she's earnestly studying, though she finds
that a language where meat is feminine and milk masculine simply doesn't
appeal to her reason. She's learned to call Wednesday 'Mur_cree_dy' and
Saturday 'Samdy.' When she goes to Mentone to buy me something at Aux
Dames de France, she says she's bought it at the 'Ox Daimes.' But she
reached her grandest height this morning. I walked into my room, to hear
her groaning at a window that looks toward Monte Carlo. 'Oh, those poor,
poor men committing suicide! I can't get them out of my head,' she
moaned when I asked if she were ill. 'That day when I went over there
sightseeing. It was too awful, walking on the terrace, to hear those
poor creatures blowing out their brains every two minutes down under the
Casino. I couldn't stand it, so I had to come away, but nobody else
seemed to mind, and some of 'em was hanging over the wall to see what
was going on!' I couldn't imagine what she meant, for a minute. Then I
knew it must be the pigeon-shooters."
Angelo laughed. "Of course. But what do _you_ know of the
pigeon-shooters, Marie mia? You have sternly refused to let me take you
to Monte Carlo.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404