Constance Fenimore Woolson by Constance Fenimore Woolson

Author:Constance Fenimore Woolson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Library of America
Published: 2019-12-21T01:22:34+00:00

“And they say they’ll put me in prison—oh—ow!—an old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like me!” moaned Uncle Pietro.

“An old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like him,” repeated Granmar, shrilly, proud of this fine language.

Suddenly she brandished her lean arms. “You Denza there, with your stored-up money made from my starvation—yam!—mine, how dare you be so silent, figure of a mule? Starvation! yes, indeed. Wait and I’ll show you my arms, Pietro; wait and I’ll show you my ribs—yam!”

“You keep yourself covered up, Granmar,” said Prudence, tucking her in; “you’ll do yourself a mischief in this cold weather.”

“Ahi!” said Granmar, “and do I care? If I could live to see you drowned, I’d freeze and be glad. Stored-up money! stored-up money!”

“What do you know of my money?” said Prudence. Her voice trembled a little.

“She confesses it!” announced Granmar, triumphantly.

“An old ma—an,” said Pietro, crouching over Nounce’s scaldino. “A good old ma—an. But—accommodate yourself.”

Prudence sat down and took up her sewing. “I don’t believe they’ll put you in jail at all, Patro,” she said; “ ’twon’t do ’em any good, and what they want is their money. You just go to ’em and say that you’ll do day’s work for ’em till it’s made up, and they’ll let you off, I’ll bet. Nine francs, is it? Well, at half a franc a day you can make it up full in eighteen days; or call it twenty-four with the festas.”

“The Americans are all mercenary,” remarked old Pietro, waving his hand in scorn. “Being themselves always influenced by gain, they cannot understand lofty motives nor the cold, glittering anger of the nobility. The Leoncinis are noble; they are of the old Count’s blood. They do not want their money; they want revenge—they want to rack my bones.”

Granmar gave a long howl.

“Favor me, my niece, with no more of your mistakes,” concluded Pietro, with dignity.

“I don’t believe they’d refuse,” said Prudence, unmoved. “I’ll go and ask ’em myself, if you like; that ’ll be the best way. I’ll go right away now.” She began to fold up her work.

At this Pietro, after putting the scaldino safely on the stove, fell down in a round heap on the floor. Never were limbs so suddenly contorted and tangled; he clawed the bricks so fiercely with his fingers that Nounce, frightened, left her bench and ran into the next room.

“What’s the matter with you? I never saw such a man,” said Prudence, trying to raise him.

“Let be! let be!” called out Granmar; “it’s a stroke; and you’ve brought it on, talking to him about working, working all day long like a horse—a good old man like that.”

“I don’t believe it’s a stroke,” said Prudence, still trying to get him up.

“My opinion is,” said Granmar, sinking into sudden calm, “that he will die in ten minutes—exactly ten.”

His face had indeed turned very red.

“Dear me! I suppose I shall have to run down for the doctor,” said Prudence, desisting. “Perhaps he’d ought to be bled.

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