And lifting the cover an inch or two, she displayed the anxious face of a poor little sucking pig.

“E carino?” she demanded, whilst her eyes beamed with a pride that almost seemed maternal.

“What on earth are you going to do with him?” Beatrice gasped.

The light of pride gave place to a light of resolution, in Marietta’s eyes.

“Kill him, Mightiness,” was her grim response; “stuff him with almonds, raisins, rosemary, and onions; cook him sweet and sour; and serve him, garnished with rosettes of beet-root, for my Signorino’s Sunday dinner.”

“Oh-h-h!” shuddered Beatrice and Emilia, in a breath; and they resumed their walk.

XII

Francois was dining—­with an appearance of great fervour.

Peter sat on his rustic bench, by the riverside, and watched him, smoking a cigarette the while.

The Duchessa di Santangiolo stood screened by a tree in the park of Ventirose, and watched them both.

Francois wore a wide blue ribbon round his pink and chubby neck; and his dinner consisted of a big bowlful of bread and milk.

Presently the Duchessa stepped forth from her ambush, into the sun, and laughed.

“What a sweetly pretty scene,” she said.  “Pastoral—­idyllic —­it reminds one of Theocritus—­it reminds one of Watteau.”

Peter threw his cigarette into the river, and made an obeisance.

“I am very glad you feel the charm of it,” he responded.  “May I be permitted to present Master Francois Vllon?”

“We have met before,” said the Duchessa, graciously smiling upon Francois, and inclining her head.

“Oh, I did n’t know,” said Peter, apologetic.

“Yes,” said the Duchessa, “and in rather tragical circumstances.  But at that time he was anonymous.  Why—­if you won’t think my curiosity impertinent—­why Francois Villon?”

“Why not?” said Peter.  “He made such a tremendous outcry when he was condemned to death, for one thing.  You should have heard him.  He has a voice!  Then, for another, he takes such a passionate interest in his meat and drink.  And then, if you come to that, I really had n’t the heart to call him Pauvre Lelian.”

The Duchessa raised amused eyebrows.

“You felt that Pauvre Lelian was the only alternative?”

“I had in mind a remark of Pauvre Lilian’s friend and confrere, the cryptic Stephane,” Peter answered.  “You will remember it.  ‘L’ame d’un poete dans le corps d’un—­’ I—­I forget the last word,” he faltered.

“Shall we say ’little pig’?” suggested the Duchessa.

“Oh, please don’t,” cried Peter, hastily, with a gesture of supplication.  “Don’t say ‘pig’ in his presence.  You’ll wound his feelings.”

The Duchessa laughed.

“I knew he was condemned to death,” she owned.  “Indeed, it was in his condemned cell that I made his acquaintance.  Your Marietta Cignolesi introduced us.  Her air was so inexorable, I ’m a good deal surprised to see him alive to-day.  There was some question of a stuffing of rosemary and onions.”