There was an extremely pretty Italian present with her newly wedded husband, who turned out to be a retired officer.  He fraternized at once with our soldiers, and when we left the table they all rose and made military obeisances.  Having asked leave to light their cigars, they were smoking—­the sweet young bride blowing a fairy cloud from her rosy lips with the rest.  “Indeed,” I heard an Italian lady once remark, “why should men pretend to deny us the privilege of smoking?  It is so pleasant and innocent.”  It is but just to the Italians to say that they do not always deny it; and there is, without doubt, a certain grace and charm in a pretty fumatrice.  I suppose it is a habit not so pleasing in an ugly or middle-aged woman.

IV.

THROUGH BOLOGNA TO GENOA.

I.

We had intended to stay only one day at Ferrara, but just at that time the storms predicted on the Adriatic and Mediterranean coasts, by Mathieu de la Drome, had been raging all over Italy, and the railway communications were broken in every direction.  The magnificent work through and under the Apennines, between Bologna and Florence, had been washed away by the mountain torrents in a dozen places, and the roads over the plains of the Romagna had been sapped by the flood, and rendered useless, where not actually laid under water.

On the day of our intended departure we left the hotel, with other travellers, gayly incredulous of the landlord’s fear that no train would start for Bologna.  At the station we found a crowd of people waiting and hoping, but there was a sickly cast of doubt in some faces, and the labeled employes of the railway wore looks of ominous importance.  Of course the crowd did not lose its temper.  It sought information of the officials running to and fro with telegrams, in a spirit of national sweetness, and consoled itself with saying, as Italy has said under all circumstances of difficulty for centuries:  Ci vuol pazienza!  At last a blank silence fell upon it, as the Capo-Stazione advanced toward a well-dressed man in the crowd, and spoke to him quietly.  The well-dressed man lifted his forefinger and waved it back and forth before his face:—­

The Well-dressed Man.—­Dunque, non si parte piu? (No departures, then?)

The Capo-Stazione (waving his forefinger in like manner.)—­Non si parte piu. (Like a mournful echo.)

We knew quite as well from this pantomime of negation as from the dialogue our sad fate, and submitted to it.  Some adventurous spirit demanded whether any trains would go on the morrow.  The Capo-Stazione, with an air of one who would not presume to fathom the designs of Providence, responded:  “Who knows?  To-day, certainly not.  To-morrow, perhaps.  But”—­and vanished.