"
"Now then, Signora Marta, bring out your light," called the deputy
ostler in at the inn door.
The individual addressed as Signor Conte became evidently excited,
and prepared himself to be the first to present himself at the door
of the coach as it drew up opposite the inn. The ostler stepped out
into the street with his stable lanthorn. Signora Marta, shivering,
with a huge shawl over her head, took up her position, lanthorn in
hand, behind the Signor Conte, and the ramshackle old coach,
rattling over the uneven round cobble-stones of the execrable
pavement with a crash of noise that seemed to threaten that every
jolt would be its last, came to a standstill at the inn door.
The Signor Conte Leandro Lombardoni--that was the name of the young
man hitherto called Il Signor Conte--opened the door with his own
hand, and, putting his head eagerly into the interior, cried,
"Are you there, Signor Ercole? Well! What news? Have you succeeded?
Let me give you a hand."
"Grazie, Signor Leandro, grazie," replied a high-pitched voice of
singularly shrill quality from within the vehicle, "I don't know
whether I can move. Misericordia! che viaggio! What a journey I have
had. I am nearly dead. My blood is frozen in my veins. I have no use
of my limbs. I shall never recover it; never!"
And then very slowly a huge bundle of cloaks and rags and furs,
nearly circular in form and about five feet in diameter, began to
move towards the door of the carriage, and gradually, by the help of
Signor Leandro and Signora Marta, to struggle through it and get
itself down on the pavement.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114