She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. .
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