The Dodge Club Part 59

"What? better zan Sakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much surpra.s.s me."

"Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why, his poetry is known by heart through all England and America."

"Merciful Heaven! what you tell me! ees eet possbl! An yet he is not known here efen by name. It would plees me mooch, my Senator, to hajre you make one quotatione. Know you Watt? Tell to me some words of his which I may remembaire."

"I have a shocking bad memory."

"Bad raemora! Oh, but you remember somethin, zis mos beautful charm nait--you haf a n.o.bile soul--you mus be affecta by beauty--by ze ideal. Make for a me one quotatione."

And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked up imploringly in his face.

The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was a beautiful woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him.

Perplexing--but very flattering after all. So he replied:

"You will not let me refuse you any thing."

"Aha! you are vera willin to refuse. It is difficulty for me to excitare youar regards. You are fill with the grands ideas. But come--will you spik for me some from your favorit Watt?"

"Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly, and he hesitated.

"Ah--I do wis it so much!"

"Ehem!"

"Begin," said the Countess. "Behold me. I listen. I hear everysin, and will remembaire it forava."

The only thing that the Senator could think of was the verse which had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured rhythm keeping time with every occupation:

"'My willing soul would stay--'"

"Stop one moment," said the Countess. "I weesh to learn it from you;" and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly dropped her eyes.

"'Ma willina sol wooda sta--'"

"In such a frame as this,'" prompted the Senator.

"'Een socha framas zees.' Wait--'Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?"

"'And sit and sing herself away,'" said the Senator, in a faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of committing himself by such uncommonly strong language.

"'Ansit ansin ha.s.saf awai,'" repeated the Countess, her face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression.

The Senator paused.

"Well?"

"I--ehem! I forget."

"Forget? Impossible!"

"I do really."

"Ah now! Forget? I see by youar face--you desave. Say on."

The Countess again gently touched his arm with both of her little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it.

"Have you fear? Ah, cruel!"

The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly finished:

"'To everlasting bliss'--there!"

"'To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all: 'My willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees, ansit ansin ha.s.saf awai to affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?"

"Yes," said the Senator, meekly.

"I knew you war a poetic sola," said the Countess, confidingly.

"You air honesto--true--you can not desave. When you spik I can beliv you. Ah, my Senator! an you can spik zis poetry!--at soch a taime! I nefare knew befoare zat you was so impa.s.sione!--an you air so artaful! You breeng ze confersazione to beauty--to poatry--to ze poet Watt--so you may spik verses mos impa.s.sione! Ah! What do you mean? Santissima madre! how I wish you spik Italiano."

The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deepened his perplexity.

"How that poor thing does love me!" sighed the Senator. "Law bless it! she can't help it--can't help it nohow. She is a goner; and what can I do? I'll have to leave Florence. Oh, why did I quit b.u.t.tons!

Oh, why--"

The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood waiting for him to break the silence. How could he? He had been uttering words which sounded to her like love; and she--"a widow! a widow!

wretched man that I am!"

There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awkward the Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say? What business had he to go and quote poetry to widows? What an old fool he must be!

But the Countess was very far from feeling awkward. a.s.suming an elegant att.i.tude she looked up, her face expressing the tenderest solicitude.

"What ails my Senator?"

"Why the fact is, marm--I feel sad--at leaving Florence. I must go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The children are down with the measles."

Oh, base fabrication! Oh, false Senator! There wasn't a word of truth in that remark. You spoke so because you wished _La Cica_ to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was very badly done.

_La Cica_ changed neither her att.i.tude nor her expression.

Evidently the existence of his wife, and the melancholy situation of his unfortunate children, awaked no sympathy.

"But, my Senator--did you not say you wooda seeng yousellef away to affarlasteen belees?"

"Oh, marm, it was a quotation--only a quotation."

But at this critical juncture the conversation was broken up by the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen.

But could the Senator have known!

Could he but have known how and where those words would confront him again!