Pepe, the major-domo, after Wendelin came to the throne, was made body-servant to the king; he, above all others, was inclined to regard his master, born under a lucky star and possessing everything that one could desire, as a person favoured by Fortune; yet, after he had listened to his sighs and murmurs through many a quiet night, he reflected:  “I am better off in my own shoes.”

Pepe kept his own counsel and confided to no one save old Nonna what he knew.  She, too, had learned to be discreet and consequently did not repeat his confidences even to the duchess, who had enough to bear without that additional burden.

How pale her darling seemed to her when she saw him in the glass!  Yet, even on the worst days, he was busy at his place in the piazza, where the cathedral, which he had been building for three years, was nearing completion.  The greatest energy at that moment was being expended on the dome, which rose proudly over the crossing of the nave and transepts.  Whenever Nonna looked over the duchess’ shoulder to get a glimpse of George, he was always seen there so long as the sun was in the heavens.  Many times the hearts of the two women stood still when they saw him climb to the highest point of the scaffolding in order to direct the work from there.  Fate had only to make his foot slip one little inch or decree that a wasp should sting him on the finger to put an end to his existence.  The poor mother was doubly anxious because he seemed so unconscious of the risk he ran up there and looked about him even more boldly and self-reliantly than usual.

The dome was already perfectly round.  Why wasn’t it finished, and why must he go on climbing again and again that frightful scaffolding?

“Nonna, Nonna, you must look, I can stand it no longer,” she cried one day after she had been regarding the glass for a long time.  “Hold me—­he is going to jump.  Nonna, is he safe?  I can no longer see.”  And the glass shook in her hand.

“Oh!” the old woman answered, heaving a sigh of relief, “there he stands as solidly and firmly as the statue of Wendelin I. in the market-place.  See. . . .”

“Yes, yes, there he is,” the duchess cried and fell on her knees to thank Heaven.

The nurse continued to look in the glass.  Suddenly she shrieked aloud and her mistress sank together and covered her face with her hands.  “Has he fallen?  Is he dead?” she groaned.

But Nonna, despite her gout, sprang up and ran to her mistress with the mirror in her hand and stammering, half laughing and half crying, like one drunk yet possessed of his senses:  “George, our George, look.  Our prince has the grey lock.  Here, before my very eyes I saw it grow.”

The duchess jumped up, cast one glance into the glass, saw the grey lock distinctly, and then forgetting that she was a princess and Nonna but a humble servant, threw her arms about her and kissed her on the mouth, above which grew so luxuriant a moustache that many a page would gladly have exchanged his young upper lip for her older one.  Then the duchess reached once more for the mirror to assure herself that her eyes had not been deceived, but her fingers trembled so with excitement that the glass slipped from her hand and fell to the floor where it broke in a thousand pieces.