Historical fiction; Italy -- History -- Revolution of 1848 -- Fiction; War stories
The lady named her Milanese hotel as the General waved his plumes,
nodded, and rode off.
Before the carriage had started, Barto Rizzo dashed up to it; and 'Dear
good English lady,' he addressed her, 'I am the brother of Luigi, who
carries letters for you in Milan--little Luigi!--and I have a mother
dying in Milan; and here I am in Verona, ill, and can't get to her, poor
soul! Will you allow me that I may sit up behind as quiet as a mouse,
and be near one of the lovely English ladies who are so kind to
unfortunate persons, and never deaf to the name of charity? It's my
mother who is dying, poor soul!'
The lady consulted her husband's face, which presented the total blank
of one who refused to be responsible for an opinion hostile to the
claims of charity, while it was impossible for him to fall in with
foreign habits of familiarity, and accede to extraordinary petitions.
Barto sprang up. 'I shall be your courier, dear lady,' he said, and
commenced his professional career in her service by shouting to the
vetturino to drive on. Wilfrid met them as he was trotting down from
the Porta del Palio, and to him his sister confided her new trouble in
having a strange man attached to her, who might be anything. 'We don't
know the man,' said her husband; and Adela pleaded for him: 'Don't speak
to him harshly, pray, Wilfrid; he says he has a mother dying in Milan.'
Barto kept his head down on his arms and groaned; Adela gave a doleful
little grimace. 'Oh, take the poor beggar,' said Wilfrid; and sang out
to him in Italian: 'Who are you--what are you, my fine fellow?' Barto
groaned louder, and replied in Swiss-French from a smothering depth: 'A
poor man, and the gracious lady's servant till we reach Milan.'
'I can't wait,' said Wilfrid; 'I start in half-an-hour. It's all right;
you must take him now you've got him, or else pitch him out--one of the
two. If things go on quietly we shall have the Autumn manoeuvres in a
week, and then you may see something of the army.' He rode away. Barto
passed the gates as one of the licenced English family.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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